Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A brick. The thing that kills Scott is a brick. 

Not a high-speed crash in Thunderbird One. Not overwork and stress. Not a rescue complication. Not the aftermath of a natural disaster. Not an equipment failure. 

No, it's a brick. A brick thrown by a very angry man. 

John knows everything about the man before the NYPD or the GDF do, thanks to EOS and Kayo’s combined efforts.

Samuel White, ex-construction worker for a company subcontracted by Tracy Industries, made redundant by the subcontractor last fall. John is just barely old enough to remember the time before Dad's enterprises paid off, when their family fortune had been nothing more than a couple acres of parched, empty farmland. He knows what struggling looks like, or at least how it looks on a bank statement. And Mr White had certainly been struggling- no new job, despite six months of constant applications. No savings, no way to pay the bills or the rent or feed his family. 

No wonder he'd been protesting at the New York headquarters, lashing out at the company he felt responsible for his situation. No wonder his anger got the better of him.

It's no wonder at all. 

But John can't bring himself to feel sorry for Mr White. He's the reason Scott is dead. The man that woke up in that hospital room only resembles John's brother physically. Everything that made him Scott is gone, if Virgil's updates are anything to go by.

“That is incorrect,” EOS announces, bright and cheerful in John’s ear. 

John startles, dropping his bagel. Unlike on Thunderbird Five, gravity pulls it to the floor, splattering cream cheese and crumbs over the hotel kitchenette tiles. He bites back a curse, crouches to clean up the mess despite the protest of his muscles.

“Scott is still your brother. My research indicates that this confused phase is only temporary, and—“

“Stop,” John interrupts her. He must have been thinking out loud. He doesn’t normally do that. 

How many hours has he been awake? It’s dark outside, or would be if not for the bright lights of Manhattan’s skyscrapers sparkling just beneath their penthouse suite. His eyes are too gritty to focus on the ornamental clock hanging in a darkened corner of the lounge.

“I am trying to reassure you.” EOS sounds sullen. 

John sighs. He hadn’t meant to upset her. He tosses the bagel in the trash, grabs some paper towels as he tries to think.

In the end, he settles for “I know. I’m just tired.”

“You have been tired before,” EOS says, still snippy.

“I have. But this time I’m scared, too.” 

There’s nothing but silence for a long moment. John can just about hear snoring from the bedrooms, the low hum of the fridge. Still quiet. Gordon and Alan must still be asleep, despite John’s slip-up. Good. 

“Samuel White has been apprehended,” EOS says, as John finishes wiping up the cheese, tossing the paper towels in the trash. “I have checked, eight times. He is in police custody. You are safe. I can show you a live feed from his cell, if you like.”

“It’s not that.” 

“What is it, then?”

John sits back on the couch, where he’d spent the last however-many hours hunched over his computer. Just another reason to hate gravity: his back and shoulders protest with every movement. 

“John?” EOS murmurs again, after several silent seconds pass.

John bites his lip, rubs at his gritty eyes. He doesn’t know how to answer her. How can he, when everything about this situation is so horribly wrong? What isn’t he afraid of, at this point? 

“It’s not supposed to happen like this,” is what John settles on. He keeps his voice low, now hyper-aware of his volume. Can’t wake his brothers, not until he’s heard from Virgil and Grandma at the hospital. Not until he has answers. Not until he has something comforting to say about Scott’s condition.

“What do you mean?” EOS asks. 

“Look at what we do,” John mutters, with an exhausted shrug. “We thrust ourselves into the most dangerous situations imaginable to help anybody and everybody who needs it. It’s a wonder none of us have been killed doing what we do on a daily basis.”

“But Scott isn’t dead,” EOS insists. “He is alive. In fact, he is sleeping right now. I can show you a live feed of his hosp—“

“I said ‘stop’, EOS,” John snaps, louder than he intended, and he hears a loud grunting, gurgling noise from the bedrooms. Probably Gordon- there’s a reason John’s always refused to share a room with him, even on vacation. He bites his lip, wills his brother to fall back into deep sleep.

After a moment, the noise subsides, and John lets out a breath he hadn’t even realised he was holding.

“I am helping you, John,” EOS says, and maybe it’s John’s imagination, but she sounds almost hurt at his outburst. 

“I know,” he whispers. “I know, and that’s the thing, isn’t it? You’re helping me, and I’m hurting you.” He pauses, trying to stop his lungs shuddering. “We spend all our time helping people, and the one time Scott goes to the mainland…” 

“Those are not appropriate comparisons to make,” EOS tells him. “You know me. Mr White does not know Scott. He has never been personally assisted by International Rescue. John, I fear you are becoming illogical. You need to rest.”

“I need to find a way to stop this happening again,” John tells her, hunching over his keyboard again despite the ache in his neck and spine. “I need to find a way to put that man away for good, and I need to find a way to help Scott. I’ll rest when I’m done.”

That’s a lie, and John knows it. Those are tremendous tasks, especially the last one. He might never be done. Humanity has explored the deep, dark depths of the stars and the seas, and yet knows next to nothing about what lies inside a skull.

Nevertheless, John’s prepared to devote himself to this task for as long as it takes, no matter the cost to himself. He ignores the discomfort of the too-bright monitor against his tired eyes, starts tapping on his keyboard.

“No, you won’t,” a sleep-rough voice croaks, startling John. 

Gordon. It’s Gordon, standing in the doorway in his wrinkled shirt and sleep shorts.

“What are you doing awake?” John asks, and it comes out of his mouth like a sneer. He's too tired to care, though.

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“I’m working,” John replies.

“No, you’re not, you’re going to bed. Grandma’s gonna kill me if you pass out tomorrow at the hospital.”

“No, she won’t. You’re her favourite.”

“Says Doctor Tracy the second, Mister ‘I’ve got so many degrees there’s a whole alphabet after my name’?” John can’t see it, but he can tell Gordon’s raising his eyebrow.

John scoffs, turns his attention back to his blurry screen. 

“That doesn’t make sense,” he says. 

“It totally does!” Gordon insists. “Come on, go to bed. It’s almost three A.M. Virge said he was gonna come get us at nine. I know you’ve got that weird sleep schedule you like- you don’t have to sleep the whole time. But you do actually have to sleep a little bit. Seriously, you can't pass out at the hospital."

“He’s right,” says EOS, which is frankly nothing short of back-stabbing her creator. There’s nothing in the world more annoying than Gordon Tracy being right, and she should know that after the long months she’s spent in Five. 

“Thank you, EOS,” Gordon says, smugly. He crosses the room in two quick strides, grabs John’s arm. “C'mon, get up!”

There’s no way either of them will leave him in peace now. 

“I hate you,” he hisses. 

“No, you don’t,” Gordon replies, slapping him cheerfully on the shoulder. “Hey, Allie and I made a blanket nest! It’ll be just like old times.”

“Computer off,” EOS announces her betrayal with a bright chirp. “Good night, John.”

There’s no way she’ll allow him to get back to work until she deems him sufficiently rested, and he can't do anything about her interference remotely. Ugh. John swallows an irritated groan and reluctantly follows his brother into the largest bedroom. 

It’s illuminated by a muted TV on one wall, showing some old action movie from the early Noughties. The two queen beds in here have been pushed together, strewn with blankets and throws and duvets and pillows and cushions, likely stolen from every room other than the two claimed by Grandma and Virgil. In the middle of the mess is a sleeping Alan, face pressed into a particularly large cushion. Gordon half-pushes, half-rolls John onto one side of the franken-bed, before clambering onto the other side. 

“Sweet dreams,” Gordon lets out one exaggerated yawn before falling silent. Whether he’s asleep already or not, John can’t tell. Gordon has always been annoyingly good at subverting John’s expectations. 

John grits his teeth and reluctantly closes his eyes, and that’s when a small voice pipes up. 

“Are you done fighting?” Alan yawns, and— ugh— John can’t help but yawn too.

“Yeah,” Gordon replies, and the blankets rustle again. Not asleep, then.

“For now,” John corrects him. 

“Good,” Alan mumbles. “Hate it when you fight.”

There’s not much John can say to that, so he doesn’t say anything at all. Instead, he blindly reaches across the blankets until his hand finds the soft, golden spikes of Alan’s bed-head, giving his littlest brother what he hopes is a comforting pat.

Despite John’s earlier insistence that he could— would— continue to work, it’s not long before his brothers’ breaths even out and John finds himself starting to drift. Of course, all of his thoughts drift back to the same thing that’s been at the forefront of his thoughts for the last fifteen hours or so: that short clip of Scott getting hit on live TV that’s been airing non-stop on all the news channels. His brother flashing the cameras a charming smile, dimples and all, before blurring suddenly with a sickening thud and a newscaster's scream.

There's one more thing drifting 'round his head, too. Grandma's reassuring voice as they flew to the mainland as fast as Virgil could carry them: "Scott is as strong as they come. No matter what happens, we'll be okay."

As the seconds tick into minutes, which tick on into hours, the circular whirlwind of thought slowly fades as exhaustion wins over anxiety. 

Maybe things will be better in the morning, John thinks in the grey haze of a New York dawn, shortly before he stops thinking at all. Maybe Grandma and EOS are right.

Chapter Text

The coffee shop is crammed. 

Of course it’s crammed, it’s eight-thirty on a weekday in central Manhattan. Virgil really should’ve thought about that before deciding to surprise his brothers with breakfast instead of just getting his morning caffeine fix from the hospital’s room service. But he’d been tired and the floor Scott was admitted to had been so quiet, and he’d just… forgotten. Which means that Virgil is currently running almost two hours behind his usual coffee schedule, and he can feel every caffeine-less second slipping him by.

Virgil does his best to ignore the tantalising smell of fresh coffee as he scowls at his phone. John should’ve sent a reply by now. He usually replies instantly to any messages. It’s been ten minutes, though, which means that either Gordon is venting the anxiety they’re all mired in through ill-timed pranks— hiding John’s devices has always been one of his favourites—  or John is asleep.

Knowing John, he probably hasn’t slept, probably hasn’t moved an inch from his computer monitor since Virgil left the hotel suite with Grandma. On the other hand, knowing Gordon and Alan… well, pretty much anything could’ve happened with those two involved, though Virgil has been quietly hoping that EOS’ presence has somehow helped. Or maybe it didn’t— nobody’s ever talked about John’s decision to forgive her for that near-murder thing, but Virgil’s pretty sure they’re all a little uneasy where she’s concerned.

Virgil worries his lower lip. He taps out another message, this time to Alan. There’s no point in trying to reach Gordon: while he always promptly answers his comm unit, always eager to save lives, he’s nowhere near as diligent when it comes to answering his phone. Or his e-mails, as Virgil has so often heard Tracy Industries engineers lament.

t-minus 16 minutes to breakfast. hope you guys are hungry! :-)

The person in front of Virgil moves, and the barista calls to him next.

“Good morning, sir! What can I get you?”

Virgil shoves his phone in his pocket, plasters on his best polite smile.

“Morning,” he greets her. He chooses mostly at random from the food menu before rattling off his brothers’ usual drink orders, adding a couple extra espresso shots to his own drink.

“Uh… sorry, how many?” the barista asks. She blinks at him, hand hovering above her register.

“You’re right, I'll take another shot,” Virgil says. God, he needs the caffeine. Despite Grandma coaxing him onto the couch in Scott’s room, he hadn’t been able to sleep at all last night. He’d just lain there, listening to Grandma whispering soothingly to an uncharacteristically docile Scott. When they’d both fallen asleep, Virgil had carefully moved Grandma to the couch, taken her place in the armchair next to the bed, and despite his best efforts, continued worrying until dawn. 

Virgil bites back a yawn and digs in his pocket for his wallet as the barista continues tapping away at her register.

“Can I get it all to go, please?”

"Sure. Are you paying with cash or card?"

By the time the worker at the pick-up counter signals Virgil, his phone is buzzing near-constantly with new messages. They’re mostly from Alan, excited at the prospect of food, though Gordon and John have sent greetings and a couple questions his way. He doesn’t reply: they’ll get their answers with their breakfast. 

There is one message that gives him pause. It’s from Kayo- the only message he’s received from her since Scott’s attack was broadcast on live TV.

Call me when Scott is lucid. We need to discuss security arrangements. 

Virgil hesitates for a moment. They do need to talk, but about way more than just security. There’s a big legal and media mess brewing: the criminal case against Brick Guy is already the only thing the news networks seem capable of talking about, and a few reporters have started delving into Brick Guy’s vendetta against Tracy Industries. Obviously, the Tracy family haven’t done anything wrong— at least, that’s what John said—  but who knows how the media will twist stuff? And Grandma was talking earlier about activating Scott’s power of attorney documents, at least until he’s out of the hospital, and that’s a can of worms Virgil doesn’t even want to think about opening.  

Virgil doesn’t type any of that out, though. Instead, he sends a single thumbs-up emoji and heads over to the pick-up counter. He thanks the worker and collects his paper bags and cardboard tray before weaving his way out of the shop and into the street, trying his best to quash the urge to dig out his cup of coffee and chug the entire thing in ten seconds flat.

It’s unseasonably cold outside, considering it’s spring. Or maybe this is how New York always feels, and Virgil’s just been spoilt by his tropical island home and thermo-regulated International Rescue uniform. He walks a little faster, clutching his wares to his stomach so that the warmth trickles slowly through the paper bags and his clothes.

When Virgil reaches the hotel, just a couple blocks away, Alan’s already waiting in the lobby for him. His hair is sticking up in all directions and his eyes are puffy- either he didn't sleep much or he's been crying. Maybe both. He’s wearing one of Scott’s workout hoodies, a pale blue that’s comically oversized on his small frame. 

“Virgil!” Alan exclaims, bouncing to his feet as soon as he sees his brother. Thankfully, he has just enough sense to stop himself hugging Virgil while he’s carrying their breakfast, settling instead for beaming up at him with a bright smile. 

“Hey, Allie. How are you guys holding up?”

“We’re okay. Me and Gordon made a blanket fort and watched a bunch of movies. And I finished my homework. I sent it to my teacher this morning.”

“Good work, kid,” Virgil says. He lets Alan push the button for the elevator. “What about John?”

“Uh… you have to promise not to get mad at him…” Alan starts, looking sheepish, and that can only mean one thing.

“He stayed up all night on his computer, didn’t he?”

“Well, I mean, he tried. But Gordon made him come to bed after he started yelling at EOS.”

Yelling at EOS? That’s a new, worrying development. The elevator doors open with a gentle ding and Virgil steps inside. He silently hopes that this won’t lead to another near-murder experience for John. One was enough.

“I’m buying Gordon another drink for that,” Virgil declares, as Alan swipes their room card and presses the penthouse button.. 

“What? That’s not fair!” Alan protests, head snapping up to fix Virgil with his best puppy eyes. “I want an extra one, too! I totally helped!”

“Oh? What did you do?”

“Um…” Alan bites his lip. He’s thinking hard: Virgil can see the cogs turning in his brain. “I was a good example. I went to bed at a reasonable hour. I even stayed on the bed the whole night.”

That’s actually pretty good. Usually Alan ends up rolling off the bed at some point, waking up in a tangle of limbs on the floor. Sure, he can bounce back now- he’s a teenager, that’s what they do. But as soon as he hits his twenties- or, God forbid, his thirties- he’ll start feeling those sore limbs and stiff spine. And that can only lead to disaster.

“You better keep that up,” Virgil tells him. “Okay, you can get something, too. I think there’s a milkshake place down the street.”

“Yes!” Alan punches the air with an energetic laugh. The elevator slows, dings gently again, and the doors slide open to reveal the penthouse entrance hall. Alan runs forward, gets the door open for Virgil, and then follows him into the suite. 

The living area doesn’t look any different than it did yesterday, aside from the total lack of cushions in the room and the fact that John is seated at the kitchenette island, tablet in hand, rather than hunched over a screen on the couch. He glances up as Virgil walks in, greets him with a silent nod. Virgil smiles at him, setting his bags on the island.

“Morning, John. How’d you sleep?”

“Fine,” is all the answer Virgil gets, John’s laser-focus already directed back at his tablet. Virgil sighs and starts dispensing the drinks. Alan pounces on the food bag, checking each paper-wrapped packet.

“Ooh… bacon and cheese… this one’s mine. Can I have the cinnamon roll, too?”

“If Gordon doesn’t want it,” Virgil replies, squinting down at the scribbles on the coffee lids. Plain black coffee, that’s for John. He slides it over. “Where is he, anyway?”

“Shower. He’ll be here soon, I told him you were coming,” Alan says. Hot chocolate with extra marshmallows. Slide.

Virgil finds his cup easily, takes a long sip of the hot, bitter nectar inside. It burns pleasantly inside his throat. Virgil closes his eyes for a moment, relishing the sensation. God, that’s better. 

“I don’t know how you drink that stuff,” John wrinkles his nose, reaching over to pluck a random packet from the pile in front of Alan. 

“It’s better than Gordon’s. It’s thirty percent syrup.”

“How do you think I got so sweet?” Gordon saunters into the kitchenette, sliding onto the stool next to John. He’s dressed in a pair of jeans and an ugly shirt, his hair damp. He grins at Virgil, accepting his coffee cup with no small amount of dramatic flair. “Oh, thank you, dear brother. Nicest brother. Kindest brother. My most favourite—“

“I get it, drink it while it’s hot.” Virgil can’t help but smile. 

“Oh, I will,” Gordon promises, rifling through the food packets. He takes two- some kind of toasted sandwich, and what looks like a chocolate croissant. 

Virgil takes another sip of his coffee before clearing his throat. He doesn’t sit down— if he does, he’ll never get back up again, even with the caffeine flowing through his veins.

“So, I know you’re all dying to hear about Scott. He’s okay.”

‘Okay’ is a stretch, to be honest. While Scott’s definitely improved in some ways- he’s no longer constantly wandering about in search of something he can’t describe, and his speech is no longer a nonsensical word salad- he’s nowhere near functional. He's dazed and forgetful, unable to pass the Westmead tests the doctors have been administering on a near-hourly basis. 

“Don’t worry. I know it's scary, but this is a perfectly normal post-injury phase,” Grandma had told Virgil last night, and he knows she’s right. He has the most advanced emergency medicine qualifications out of all the International Rescue operatives. He knows all about head injuries- just last week, he’d helped rescue a severely disoriented building collapse victim, had sat with her and run basic tests as Gordon piloted Two to the nearest hospital. But there’s a pretty big difference between assisting a stranger displaying those symptoms, and seeing his usually-capable big brother struggle to remember his own name.

“That means we can see him, right?” Alan asks, excitedly.

“We were going to go see him no matter what,” Gordon reaches over, ruffles Alan’s hair until Alan reaches up to bat him away.

“Sure you can,” Virgil says. “That’s why I’m here. I just have to talk to you about a couple things first. About Scott, and exactly what to expect from him.”

“You said he was okay…” Alan frowns, his mouth starting to look a little downturned.

“Relatively speaking,” Virgil corrects himself. “Scott was hurt pretty badly, but he’s doing as well as he can be. He’s still a little disoriented, but it will pass.”

“Disoriented?” Gordon raises an eyebrow. “Scott, the control freak, who always needs to know everything at all times? What does that even mean?”

“His memory is patchy,” Virgil clarifies. “He’s not great with names right now and he might ask you the same question a couple times. Got a few signs of concussion, and he’s a little dazed, too. Like I said, it’s going to pass.”

Virgil smiles his best reassuring smile and takes another sip of heavenly, highly caffeinated coffee. Gordon nods thoughtfully, brushing crumbs off his shirt. 

“So his memory’s shot, huh?” he says, and Virgil knows exactly what he’s about to suggest. He fixes Gordon with his firmest glare.

“No pranks. No misinformation.”

“Aw…” 

Virgil reaches forward, slides the chocolate croissant in front of Gordon away from him.

“Just for that, you’re losing your pastry privileges.”

“C’mon, I only thought about it!” Gordon protests. 

“I know what you’re like,” Virgil tells him. “Seriously, no misinformation. While Scott’s sick, I’m in charge, and that means I can ground you and revoke your internet access.”

“You wouldn’t!” 

“I would. And that goes for all of you- no screwing with him, not even something little.” 

Alan nods, clearly taking Virgil’s words seriously. John, on the other hand, hasn’t moved at all. He’s just looking at Virgil, his eyebrows slightly furrowed.

“It’s been more than twenty hours,” John says, slowly. “And he’s that disoriented?”

“It was a pretty bad blow to the head,” Virgil says. “And he hit his head again on the steps when he fell. Got a pair of pretty impressive raccoon eyes.”

“Statistically…” John starts, and Virgil cuts him off. 

“Statistics are just math that lies, you know that,” he says, firmly. “All head injuries are different. Anyway, Grandma agrees with me— Scott’s gonna be fine. He’s just gonna have a really sucky week or two in the hospital while the doctors run all their tests.”

“You’re sure?” John asks, still frowning.

Virgil glances around the room. Gordon’s mouth is a thin line, his shoulders high and tense, despite his attempts to look casual and relaxed. Alan’s biting his lip, blue eyes wide. The cinnamon roll in his hands is half-shredded, his fingers anxiously picking at the bread. 

“I’m sure,” Virgil says, with much more confidence than he feels. “There’s really nothing to worry about. Scott’s gonna be just fine.”

Chapter Text

The GDF’s joint field office is on the fifth floor of the NYPD’s headquarters in Lower Manhattan. The receptionist at the building’s entrance quickly buzz them through once she sees Kayo- no, Tanusha- 's Tracy Industries staff ID.

“Let me do the talking,” Tanusha murmurs, as they step into they elevator. “I’ve dealt with the GDF before.”

“Understood, ma’am,” Godfrey replies, a hint of his native Australian accent dropping around his vowels. He takes a moment to smooth his silvery hair and straighten his cuffs in the reflection of the elevator doors. His attention to detail is second-to-none: just one of many reasons he’s the Tracy family’s retained lawyer. The other reasons include his razor-sharp mind, encyclopaedic knowledge of several fields of law, and his lifelong friendship with Jeff Tracy. In Jeff's absence, said friendship has become a lifelong loyalty to Jeff's family.

By the time Tanisha and Godfrey enter the field office, it’s twenty-three minutes past nine on Wednesday morning. Scott was attacked at forty-seven minutes past eleven on Tuesday morning. Virgil had called her immediately upon seeing the news, and attempted to reach her another three times in the hours since, including once this morning, settling for sending sporadic text updates on Scott’s condition. He has not called since replying in affirmation to Tanusha’s last message at eight thirty-two, which means that Scott is still incoherent. 

This is all Tanusha’s fault. If she had more thoroughly assessed the risks… oh, but Scott came to the mainland frequently— albeit usually on a rescue— and nothing had ever happened before. How on earth was she supposed to know that this time would be different? The answer to that was simple: this is her job. Tanusha’s job— her only job, her raison d’etre— is to protect her family. It is a job she takes very seriously. And yet, apparently not seriously enough. 

Tanusha grits her teeth. She must have grown complacent, after thwarting so many attempts to infiltrate Tracy Island, after seeing her brother - no, she doesn't have the right to call them that anymore - the Tracy family successfully save so many people across the world. She must have forgotten how dangerous human beings could be. She must have gotten weak, her mind dulled by her streak of good luck so far. That’s all she can call it: luck. Luck that no other members of the Tracy Family have been seriously hurt so far. The boys would probably beg to differ, but they’ve always been over-emotional, never been very good at accepting cold, hard facts. 

“Oh, Ms Kyrano!” a flustered young man wearing an ugly floral tie, likely some kind of secretary or junior officer, hurries up to Tanusha and Godfrey as they enter the office. “The head of security for the Tracy family, right? You’re here early. Come, wait here, the investigators will be with you in a moment.”

Floral Tie ushers them to a meeting room. Like the rest of the office, it’s clean and quiet and minimalistic, painted in white and beige, with a pale brown carpet and white plastic furniture.

“Would you like some coffee?” Floral Tie asks. “How about some water?”

“I’m fine, thanks,” Tanusha tells him as she slides into one of the chairs facing the door. Godfrey follows her lead, sitting beside her. 

“And you, sir?”

“No, thank you.”

Floral Tie leaves, closing the door behind him. The silence that settles in the room is heavy, though not uncomfortable. Godfrey opens his briefcase, setting up a small tablet and keyboard for note-taking. They have a busy afternoon ahead, and these investigators are only the first piece of what is going to be a very complex puzzle. Someone needs to figure out exactly what happened, why, how to stop it happening again, and how to keep the Hood (as well as any other unsavoury figures they can pinpoint) from taking advantage of International Rescue's current dormant state.

Tanusha doesn’t need to wait long for the investigators to arrive: according to her watch, the door opens again after exactly one minute and fifteen seconds. The first investigator is a tall man clutching a tablet. He’s wearing a GDF dress uniform. Judging by the pips on his uniform, he’s a sergeant. Judging by the medals, he’s a very good one. Beside the sergeant is a shorter woman, probably only a few years older than Tanusha herself, dressed in a deep green pantsuit. Her dreadlocks have been pulled back into a bun, and she’s wearing a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles.

“I’m Sergeant Park, this is Detective Adebayo,” says the man, reaching out to shake Tanusha’s hand, then Godfrey’s. Dry, with a firm grip. A good sign. He sits on the opposite side of the table, setting his tablet on the surface. “We’re the leads on this case.”

“You’ll be pleased to know that we already have the suspect in custody,” Adebayo shakes Tanusha’s hand before sitting next to her partner on the other side of the table. “We’re doing everything in our power to make sure we have a watertight case against him. Colonel Casey has personally ensured we have all available resources at our disposal.”

“There’s no doubt about the fact he attacked Mr. Tracy,” Park adds. Godfrey nods, starts gently tapping away at his keyboard. “There are three video recordings, four CCTV cameras, one live broadcast feed, and eighteen eyewitnesses. We’re mostly concerned with figuring out the suspect’s motive at this point.”

‘Mr Tracy’ should mean Jeff. It always feels a little bit wrong when it’s applied to Scott, though he tries his hardest to make it fit when he’s on the mainland in one of his expensive suits. Neatly pressed and impeccably clean, except for when there’s blood dripping down his face, body limp, in the shaky half-second before yesterday’s live feed cut out. Tanusha ignores the lump forming in her throat, focuses on Detective Adebayo, who’s started speaking again.

“-possible for us to speak to Mr Tracy? We’d like to build a timeline of the hours immediately preceding the attack. We’re currently tracing the suspect’s movements through public transport CCTV and receipts, since he’s not being very co-operative, but something tells me we can’t track Mr Tracy in the same manner.”

Detective Adebayo is correct. Unfortunately, Virgil’s updates so far have not been very hope-inspiring.

“Mr Tracy was quite badly hurt,” Tanusha says. “From what I’ve gathered, he’s severely concussed. Right now, you won’t even get his own name out of him.”

“Argh…” Sergeant Park winces, looking pained. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“But you’re right, Detective,” Tanusha continues. “Mr Tracy rarely takes public transport. Yesterday, he flew from his island home, landed at Teterboro Airport, and then took a private car to the Tracy Industries headquarters. He wouldn’t have made any stops on the way— the driver was instructed to provide coffee, and I believe Mr Tracy was planning to sleep during the drive.”

In a regular plane, the journey from Tracy Island probably would’ve taken sixteen or seventeen hours. Thankfully, Scott’s private plane— while no Thunderbird One— is capable of supersonic speeds. He would’ve arrived at Teterboro about five or six hours after leaving the island, probably idly chatting with John or Virgil for most of that time.

“Can you give us a more detailed breakdown?” Adebayo asks. “I’ll need times and geolocation data if possible, as well as any receipts or correspondence you have for the driver, airport concierge, etcetera.”

“I’m afraid I don’t have anything like that on me,” Tanusha replies. It’s technically true: all such information is kept on Thunderbird Five, though Tanusha could very easily access it simply by hailing EOS with her disguised comm unit. “However, Mr Tracy always wears a watch containing a location tracker, and his plane is equipped with a GPS transmitter. I’ll ask the Thunderbird Five monitor to collect the data you need— I’ll see to it that you have what you need before the end of the day.”

Tanusha will skim through the data herself before handing it over, just in case. She’ll most likely give them Scott’s geolocation data starting from his arrival in US airspace, which should have been somewhere on the Texas border. If there’s any additional information EOS deems useful for the investigators, Tanusha will throw that in the data packet, too.

“Thank you, Ms Kyrano,” Adebayo gives her a small, though grateful smile. Now that Tanusha’s had a moment to study her face, her eyes look a little puffy, as though she didn't sleep much. There must be a lot of pressure on Adebayo and Park, given the high-profile nature of this case. 

“Do you know the contact details for the driver?” Park asks. Yes, now Tanusha’s looking for signs of exhaustion, she can see it easily: the tiny coffee stains on his collar, the bags under his eyes, the stubble growth indicating a very early start this morning.

“Not off the top of my head. I’ll make sure it’s included in the data.”

“Wonderful,” Park nods, scribbles something on his tablet, then clears his throat. “Now, Mr Tracy was on his way to a meeting, you said? He doesn’t usually attend meetings in-person, does he?”

“No, he doesn’t. He normally attends them virtually, at home, since there are many meetings held at regional and national headquarters that require his attention. But this was the global shareholder’s meeting, hence the New York location. Mr Tracy therefore felt it was absolutely necessary to attend in-person.”

“Isn’t Mr Tracy the majority shareholder? Does he really need to care about the other shareholders’ opinions?”

“Yes. Part of the reason Tracy Industries is doing so well is due to the trust placed in Mr Tracy by the shareholders. Mr Tracy believes it’s extremely important that everybody is on the same page regarding the trajectory and overall aims of Tracy Industries. He’s very particular about this as International Rescue is wholly funded by Tracy Industries.”

“I see…” Park nods, scribbles something else on his notes. “Okay, so he was going to the shareholder’s meeting. What was he going to do afterward?”

“As far as I’m aware, he was going to spend some time at the headquarters, talking to employees. Then he planned to do some souvenir shopping for his brothers before spending the night at a hotel. He would have flown home the next morning. He doesn’t like to spend much time away from the island, in case International Rescue is needed.”

“Well, that was going to be my next question,” Park scribbles a few more lines. “Then would I be right in assuming Mr Tracy had no more planned New York trips until the next annual meeting?”

“That’s right.”

“I see.”

The remaining questions from the investigators are all fairly simple.

Can Tanusha think of any reasons someone might wish to hurt Mr Tracy? Too many to count: money, fame, power, the Thunderbirds, the list feels endless.

Is it possible for the investigators speak to Mr Tracy’s relatives? Of course. Tanusha will inform them of this conversation, and they will come forward if they think they can provide new or useful information.

Could someone please keep the investigators updated on Mr Tracy’s condition? Yes, she’ll ask his family to do just that. Once Mr Tracy is capable of holding a conversation, Tanusha is sure he’ll be eager to help them.

“I know this must be difficult,” Adebayo says, sympathetically. She slides a card to Tanusha, a plain bio-plastic card embossed with her name, a phone number, and an e-mail address. “Here. if you can think of anything that might help our investigation…”

“I’ll contact you,” Tanusha promises. Beside her, Godfrey stands up. “May I have a few more of these, to give to the Tracy family?”

“Of course,” Adebayo presses a few extra cards into Tanusha’s hand, looking pleased.  “In that case, I think we’re finished for today. I hope that next time we meet will be under better circumstances.”

“As do I,” Tanusha replies. “Goodbye, detective, sergeant.”

“Goodbye.”

As they leave, walking back through the office, Tanusha can feel Godfrey’s quizzical gaze all but burning into her skin. 

“What?” she hisses, once the elevator doors close behind them.

Godfrey is silent for a moment. A very long moment.

“You introduced yourself as the head of security,” he says.

“I am the head of security,” Tanusha replies. She doesn’t look at Godfrey’s reflected eyes.

“You spoke about the Tracy family as though you’re not part of it.”

“I’m not,” Tanusha tells him, gritting her teeth as the doors slide open again and they re-enter the lobby.

“That’s not what Jeff said,” Godfrey replies. He would know: he’d been working with Jeff Tracy long before Tanusha was born, before the Tracy brothers even existed, before Jeff even met Lucille.

“Well, Jeff is dead,” Tanusha says. Jeff is dead, and Tanusha failed her charges. The men who were supposed to be her brothers. What right does she have to call them her family after this?

Godfrey doesn’t say anything more for a long time. The walk to his office is only about three blocks, but it feels like a lifetime.

Chapter Text

The hospital room is quiet. More than quiet- other than the gentle beeping of Scott’s wireless monitor, the clinking of his spoon against a bowl, and the low volume of the TV, it’s silent. Pretty impressive, considering the busy cityscape stretching endlessly through the vast windows. They must have had some expensive soundproofing installed in here. Everything else looks expensive, too: the hardwood floors, the sleek furniture, the velvet curtains.

Heck, if it weren’t for the fact that there are rails on Scott’s bed, that the monitor stand is where a bedside table ought to be, then Sally probably wouldn’t have guessed that this is a hospital room at all. She’s been in plenty over the years, having spent forty-odd years working in the local county hospital back in Kansas. But that had been different- the patients had mostly been working- or middle-class people, farmers and store clerks and teachers and veterans with okay-to-poor insurance coverage. Not multi-billionaire businessmen in one of the world’s financial capitals.

Things are better now, Sally thinks, settling back in her chair. These days, nobody has to worry about affording treatment. More money only means a nicer room. And in the case of the Tracy family, they have an awful lot of the stuff, which means Scott’s hospital room features all kinds of amenities: full climate control, state—of-the-art holo-display entertainment systems, plush leather couches, and room service, to name just a few.

Sally takes another sip of her coffee. It's not the instant dregs she remembers so well from her hospital days, that she's sure is being served just a few floors below her. This stuff is fresh from a French press that had been set on the table by an honest-to-God maid. This place really does feel like a hotel room.

Across the table, Sally’s oldest grandchild dips his spoon in a bowl of yogurt. He raises the spoon, gripping the metal with white knuckles. This time, at least, Scott gets most of the yogurt in his mouth. This time, he’s the one to wipe the excess off his skin with a folded napkin. His hand-eye co-ordination is improving rapidly. 

Yesterday Scott had been too dizzy to walk more than a few steps unaided, unable to drink water without pouring most of it down himself. This morning, he’s capable of eating. Well, mostly. There’s more yogurt than Sally would like to see on both his hospital-issued shirt and the table, but at least he’s eaten something.

Scott sighs, lets the spoon drop into the bowl. He looks even worse this morning than he did yesterday. The bruises around his eyes have darkened to a nasty maroon, and his nose is noticeably swollen. That’s a good thing, though, Sally reminds herself. That means he’s healing. 

Sally’s heart had stopped the moment she’d laid eyes on Scott yesterday, right up until Doctor Anwar— a senior in the neurology department- had shown her the X-ray results: no deadly basilar fracture in sight. Rather, Scott’s bruising was a result of a broken nose he’d acquired upon landing face-first on a small, decorative wall at the Tracy Industries entrance. The depressed fracture Scott had sustained at the brick’s point of impact was, of course, a point of concern, though not a life-threatening one. The real problem, in Doctor Anwar’s opinion, was the possibility of brain injury. So far, though, it looks as though Scott has been lucky enough to walk away from the attack with little more than a particularly nasty concussion.

“I’m done,” Scott announces. Clear speech, no more slurring. Another good sign.

“Are you sure?” Sally asks. There’s a lot of yogurt left. 

“Feel sick,” is the reply. She’s not surprised- he’d said the same thing when she first offered breakfast this morning. Nausea. Not uncommon in head injury patients. At least he can eat.

“Do you still feel dizzy?”

Scott nods, then immediately winces, covering his mouth. “Urgh…” 

Worsened nausea, plus dizziness. Vertigo. A common side-effect of head trauma. Could be a bad sign, but could also be part of the normal healing process. Sally makes a mental note of the time: she’ll discuss it with Doctor Anwar the next time she comes to check on Scott. 

“Oh, dear. Are you going to throw up?” Sally reaches across the table, squeezes Scott’s shoulder reassuringly.

“No.” Scott manages. 

“Sure?”

“Yeah.” Scott swallows hard before folding his arms on the table, taking slow, deep breaths. 

“Okay,” Sally smiles at him. “Then how about you go get ready to see your brothers? Virgil’s bringing them over soon.”

“Virgil?” Scott blinks, as though he’s never heard the name before.

Amnesia. His most worrying symptom by quite a large margin.

“Yes, your brother Virgil," Sally tells him. "You said goodbye to him earlier. It was a little over an hour ago, before Doctor Anwar came. Virgil was wearing red flannel.”

“Red flannel…” Scott echoes, but there’s no sign of recognition in his eyes. His expression remains the same: lost, vaguely confused.

Amnesia isn’t quite as Hollywood likes to show it— there are several ways it can be categorised and many more in which it can manifest. Memory isn’t quite as Hollywood likes to show it, either- it’s not a one-and-done deal. Instead, it’s a complex set of processes that aren’t yet fully understood. Generally speaking, it can be divided into short-term and long-term. In most people, information enters the short-term memory, where it is processed. Some of that information is forgotten after a short period of time, and some of that information enters the long-term memory, where it is archived. The archived information is usually divided into semantic memory- general knowledge or learnt information- and episodic memory- the actual memory of events.

It’s not uncommon for head injuries to cause episodic memory loss, though the lost information typically spans only a few minutes or hours. Neither is it uncommon for head injuries to temporarily cause short-term memory disruption, causing forgetfulness. Scott, ever the over-achiever, has managed to lose both kinds of memory to a significant degree. Temporarily, of course.

“Wait, doctor?” Scott looks worried. "Are you sick?"

“No, Doctor Anwar was here for you,” Sally replies. “She was testing you. You had answer her questions, didn’t you?”

The Westmead test, used to discern at which point brain injury patients are no longer in a disoriented state confusingly termed ‘post-traumatic amnesia’. Presented hourly during the first day of testing and daily thereafter, it consists of a short series of questions followed by a short recall test: which flashcards were shown during the previous testing session? Mildly injured patients can typically pass the test within twenty-four hours, and moderately injured patients within a week. Scott, so far, has been unable to pass the test. 

Under normal circumstances, that would be a bad sign. But these don't appear to be normal circumstances.

Sally needs to discuss her suspicions with Doctor Anwar, obviously. But in Sally's semi-professional opinion, Scott’s difficulties have been caused by his amnesia. He certainly displayed disoriented behaviour yesterday, what with constantly attempting to wander out of his room despite being too dizzy to walk, and being completely unable to articulate himself beyond a frustrated word salad, complete with wild, uncoordinated gesturing. 

Now, though? Scott seems fine— or would, if he could remember anything for longer than a few minutes at a time.

“I don’t know,” Scott worries at his lower lip. "Was it important?"

“Yes, but it’s all right. I know it’s hard for you to remember right now,” Sally tells him. “I promise, kiddo, it will pass. Now, do you need help getting dressed?”

“Dressed?”

“Yes, for Virgil.”

Scott's expression clears.

“Oh, right, Virgil. My brothers, they’re coming here.” 

“Yes, they’ll be here in about…” Sally pulls her cellphone out of her pocket, checks Virgil’s last message. “Sixteen minutes. So you need to put on some clean clothes and brush your teeth. Alan will want to hug you, and you don’t want to get yogurt all over him, do you?”

“I don’t know," Scott raises one eyebrow. "Maybe he likes yogurt.”

Sense of humour. That can’t be anything other than a good sign. 

“You think you’re funny, huh?” Sally snorts. 

“I know I’m funny,” Scott replies, with a smile so bright Sally could almost forget he were injured in the first place. He stands up, pushing in his chair with one swift movement, and then stops. He sways gently in place, eyes and mouth squeezing tightly shut. “Urgh…”

More vertigo.

“Oh, you poor thing. Are you going to…?”

“No. 'M fine.” Scott groans, not looking fine at all.

Unfortunately, Scott's stubbornness isn’t a symptom of anything other than the bull-headed personality he inherited from Jeff, who inherited it from Sally herself. She sighs, glances around the room.

There are cool gel packs and water bottles in the mini-fridge beneath the TV. She'd better get a pack on Scott's face and some more water in him once he's finished with his clothes and teeth- that might quell the nausea a little before his visitors arrive, and it might help the puffiness of his bruiesed eyes. Dealing with Scott's teeth will be easy- there are complimentary toothbrushes and toothpaste in the en-suite, just like a hotel. And if Scott can't brush his own teeth, Sally's had plenty of practice doing it for others. As for clothes, Virgil left a gym bag for Scott in one of the armchairs. Sally heads over and pulls out a few items, making a neat pile. Sweatpants, tank top, zip hoodie, underwear and socks. Both Scott’s typical running gear, and his less-typical sick gear.

When Sally turns around, Scott’s still standing exactly where he was, eyes closed, one hand white-knuckled on the back of the chair. He swallows hard.

“Do you want to dress yourself, or do want me to help?”

“Um…” Scott cracks his eyes open. He looks at the clothes, then at Sally. “I don’t know.”

“Then you should try. Start with the underwear. If you need help, I’m here. Don’t worry- between medical school and five grandsons, there’s nothing I haven’t seen.”

“Okay.” Scott still sounds unsure, but he shuffles to the bed with her, leaning heavily on Sally's shoulder the whole time. Next to the monitor stand is a curtain rail, which divides the ‘living’ and ‘sleeping’ portions of the room. The curtains hanging on one end of the rail, neatly kept open by a thick rope, are velvet too, though they’re cream-coloured rather than the rich brown of the windows.

“I’ll draw the curtain halfway, give you a little privacy. If you need help, just call for me.”

“Okay.”

“What should you do if you need help?” Sally asks. 

“I should call for you.”

“And what will you say?”

“Uh…” Scott’s brow creases for a moment. “‘Help me, Grandma’?”

Grandma. 

Does Scott actually remember her? Or the four or so times she’s reminded him of their relationship? Not likely, considering he can’t remember Virgil. He’s probably drawing a conclusion based on the information in his limited short-term memory. ‘Old woman’ plus ‘has grandsons’ plus ‘taking care of me’ equals ‘my grandma’.

Well, he’s not wrong. And it’s better than nothing: Scott’s ability to infer information is a good sign, though obviously not as good as actually remembering her.

Sally smiles at her grandson. 

“That’s right, Scott. Now, get dressed.”

She's rewarded with a smile in return.

“Okay.”

Good signs, Sally thinks to herself, as she draws the curtain halfway across the room. These are good signs. Everything will be fine.

Chapter Text

It’s about a fifteen minute walk from the hotel to the hospital. Or at least that’s how long it’s supposed to take. It actually takes thirty minutes, because Virgil apparently promised Alan milkshake earlier, an offer that had extended to Gordon but not John. No, it actually takes forty minutes, ‘cause Alan keeps wanting to stop and look at everything and John’s been dragging his feet the whole way, like he doesn’t even want to go to the hospital at all.

At least they’re almost there, Gordon thinks, taking a long sip of vanilla-and-salad deliciousness. This branch of the hospital is huge, taking up nearly an entire city block, and the visitor entrance is supposed to be right around…

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me!”

Gordon barely manages to avoid crashing face-first into Virgil’s heavily padded jacket when he stops in the middle of the sidewalk.

“What?” he demands, peering around his biggest, broadest brother. “I almost dropped my sha— Oh.”

Reporters. A gaggle of them crowding around the entrance of the hospital, clearly waiting for something. Or, well, someone. Gordon’s pretty sure he knows who they’re after— he’s been checking the news whenever Alan isn’t looking, carefully skimming all the well-wishes and inquiries that have filled his devices, and there’s only one name on everybody’s lips right now. There’s only one reason so many of them would be waiting here.

“They’re after Scott,” Virgil echoes Gordon’s thoughts.

“They’re after us,” John corrects him, speaking for the first time since they left the milkshake place. He’s been oddly quiet on the way here— quieter than usual, that is. Not quiet because he’s busy looking at a tablet or absently listening to EOS through his earpiece, quiet in the way that means something’s wrong. Quiet in the way he was after the Zero-X incident.

“What do they want?” Alan hisses, ducking behind Virgil so quickly he nearly knocks his beanie hat off his head.

“Information,” John says, simply. “I have the Tracy Industries PR team drafting a press statement as we speak.”

“When did you…?” Virgil starts, then stops with a heavy sigh. He turns, frowning now, mouth pressed into a grim line. “Doesn’t matter. We need to avoid them. I can’t deal with this right now.”

“Will they even recognise us?” Gordon wonders. “I mean, we’re not that famous without the uniforms. My Olympics happened nearly five years ago, we sue everybody who posts Alan’s face anywhere, and Virgil only ever meets rescue victims… except for that one party with Penny a while back, not that I’m jealous. The only one people might know is John, and that’s only if they called us recently or read one of his boring textbooks.”

“They’re not boring,” John replies, automatically, and then he frowns at Gordon. “Wait. You know I went to one of Penny’s parties, too. You had to help out on Five. And you know she invited me because nobody would recognise me.”

“That doesn’t count, you ran away,” Gordon scoffs. “But okay, thanks for proving my point, which is that Scott is the only one of us they’re going to know on sight.”

“I don’t want to risk it. I saw a bunch of old family photos on the news last night,” Virgil replies. “Plus, we might have rescued one of them. They’d definitely recognise us then.”

“Good point,” Gordon mutters. “Is there another entrance around here? Hospitals always have side doors, right?”

“We passed a gate a minute ago,” John says. He pauses and cocks his head slightly, the ‘listening’ kind of quiet this time. “EOS says it leads to a loading bay and a staff entrance. We can get in through there.”

“Okay, let’s go before they spot us,” Virgil agrees, already ushering them along. “Right now. Go.”

“Quit pushing me, you want niçoise milkshake all over your boots?”

“Quit being so slow and I won’t have to,” Virgil mutters, darkly, before Gordon’s words sink in. “Wait, what milkshake? Niçoise, like the salad? Why would you order that?”

“‘Cause it’s delicious,” Gordon offers him the cup. “Wanna try?”

“Absolutely not,” Virgil shudders.

“Suit yourself.”

The side road John mentioned is quiet, no vehicles in sight, but it’s not entirely deserted. There are a few hospital workers milling around, clutching cellphones and coffee cups, and at least one vape pen— probably on break. There are a couple women in scrubs, two kitchen staff, one man in a paramedic’s uniform, and another man wearing a black SECURITY vest.

All of the workers clearly notice their approach, but nobody tries to stop them. A few workers shoot tired smiles their way, and one of the scrub-wearing women waves at them, but mostly everybody just minds their own business. Before they reach the door, the security guard gives them a nod and swipes his ID card on a reader next to the door, holding it open for them.

“Press giving you trouble?” the guard asks as they file through, murmuring thanks. “Saw the crowd out front. Bunch of vultures. Next time, just call security and we’ll let you in here.”

“We appreciate it, thank you,” Virgil says, before the door closes behind them with a soft click. The guard’s offer is a nice gesture, even if it’s not really needed— Gordon isn’t sure exactly how powerful EOS is, but anything that can mess with Thunderbird Five probably wouldn’t find a simple door lock much of a problem.

“I guess the International Rescue thing makes us practically co-workers,” Virgil muses, leading the way to the elevator at the end of the hall. The inside of this hospital is pretty much the same as every other hospital Gordon’s ever been in: somehow quiet and loud at the same time, brightly-lit hallways filled with the familiar smell of disinfectant and a persistent feeling of dread.

“It also makes Gordon super wrong,” Alan says, smugly. “They totally knew who we were.”

“Hey, I was playing Devil’s Advocate back there,” Gordon protests, giving his little brother a half-hearted shove. Alan giggles, and even John lets out a short chuckle.

“Sure you were.”

Virgil presses the button to get them up to Scott’s floor. The doors close and the elevator starts rising with an unpleasant jolt.

Gordon knows it’s not just physics making him feel so heavy. It’s more than that, it’s being here at all— he’s spent too long in hospitals to ever feel fully comfortable in one. And it’s knowing deep down that Scott hates hospitals almost as much as Gordon does, and he’s a worse patient by far: where Gordon is content to sit back and soak up attention like a sponge, Scott can rarely stay still long enough to get the all-clear from the doctors.

Just how badly hurt is Scott? Virgil’s not the type to lie, except maybe to himself.

The elevator stops a couple times, for other visitors and patients and medical staff, before they get to the VIP floor. This one looks different: there are paintings hung up instead of informative posters, expensive-looking lamps set into the walls, and the floor looks like hardwood instead of vinyl. The only real indication that they're still in a hospital are the plaques next to each door, the ever-present smell of overwhelming cleanliness, and a man in scrubs walking near the far end of the hall. 

“Whoa, so that’s what Grandma meant,” Alan mutters, gazing around in awe.

“I bet there’s a sauna around here somewhere,” Gordon says. He stretches his arms, lets out a low whistle. It echoes. “Probably a swimming pool, too. Think they’ll let me use it?”

“It’s for physio,” Virgil replies, heading left. “This way.”

“Aha! So they do have a pool!”

“And you’re a visitor, not a patient.”

“Where there’s a will, there’s a way,” Gordon shrugs. He grins, gives John a gentle elbow in the side. “Hey, John, wanna help me fudge some paperwork?”

John doesn’t answer, doesn’t even crack a smile. He just trudges along with his arms crossed and his eyes fixed ahead. His steps are heavy, feet almost dragging on the floor. Is it gravity? Or something worse? Gordon can’t tell. He doesn’t miss a beat, though, smoothly leaning down to stage-whisper in Alan’s ear. 

“Guess the answer’s no. Looks like it’s just you and me, Allie, partners in crime…” 

“Don’t encourage him,” Virgil says, frowning at the signs at the junction just ahead. “Just… can the two of you behave? Please?”

“Since when have I ever not behaved?” Gordon asks. 

“Do you want a list?” Virgil rolls his eyes. “Okay, how about the time you—?“

“Good morning,” a familiar woman interrupts Virgil’s impending lecture by stepping out from the left-hand corner, right into their path. “I was hoping I’d find you here.”

Kat Cavanaugh smiles at them. Her hair has been carefully styled, and she's wearing berry-purple lipstick and a smart-looking cream suit. She’s carrying a small blue envelope in one hand and has a pair of black stilettos on her feet. There’s no visible camera drone hovering around, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t one here.

“I don’t know if you remember me,” she continues. “You help a lot of people. But you saved me from a pretty difficult situation few months ago.”

“Gran Roca,” John murmurs. Mom's old house, Gordon thinks.

“Are you okay now?” Alan asks. “You were really hurt.” 

“I was,” Cavanaugh agrees, and then she gestures down at her legs. “But now I’m good as new, thanks to you guys.”

Nice as it is to see Cavanaugh happy and healthy again, there’s no way she came here just to thank them. She might be fond of International Rescue, but she’s a journalist first and foremost.

"It's good to see you, but why are you here?" John asks.

“I heard about what happened,” Cavanaugh replies. “I was hoping to visit Scott.”

“Visit or interview?” Virgil’s frown is back.

“Both, I suppose. I still haven’t gotten a chance to really thank him— if he hadn’t shown up when he did, who knows what would have happened to me? I probably would have died.” Cavanaugh trails off, shaking her head. “I was so awful about you all, and he still helped me.”

“Scott’s just that kind of guy,” Gordon shrugs. "He's probably forgotten about it already."

“I know, but I still wanted to try to return the favour. He helped me, and I thought that maybe I could help him in turn. I’m well-known and trusted — I thought I could use my platform to help him out. Get a statement out there, a short interview, whatever he’d be willing to give.”

“And all you’d get in return is a massive influx in viewers and the hottest exclusive scoop on the planet.” Virgil's scowling now, his usually-warm eyes uncharacteristically cold. “No way. You’re not interviewing him.”

“I just thought that Scott might like to share his side of things,” Cavanaugh insists, glancing away from Virgil. Her face looks a little flushed. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, the scent of artificial roses filling Gordon’s nose. It’s a little odd: she doesn’t normally look this made-up on her broadcasts, and he doesn’t remember smelling any perfume other than Penny’s at Gran Roca. 

“He has a concussion. He needs to rest, not to be hounded by the press.”

A movement catches his eye. Cavanaugh’s tapping the envelope in her hand against her thigh, probably out of annoyance at Virgil’s refusal. It’s a little weird that she has an envelope at all— real paper is expensive, so most people send messages electronically these days. Gordon squints at the writing on the front: pretty, careful cursive. 

Dear Scott, it reads, and then all the pieces of information rattling in Gordon’s brain fall neatly into place. Cavanaugh’s uncharacteristic attention to her appearance today, her flushing and blushing, her insistence on paying a visit to her personal hero, and now an actual, physical card. It all points to one thing.

She likes Scott. She like likes him. 

Gordon reaches behind Alan and taps John’s hand, so Cavanaugh and Virgil won’t notice- though the way they’re arguing, it doesn’t look like either of them is capable of noticing a whole lot. Four quick taps, then a pause. One quick tap. Pause. Short press, quick tap, three short presses. Morse code: HEY.

“Sir, it’s in the public’s best interest to know what happened,” Cavanaugh tries again. “The attack—“

John silently raises one copper eyebrow at Gordon. An invitation to continue.

“The public knows what happened- some psychopath assaulted Scott. There’s nothing more to say. Everybody’s already seen the attack from pretty much every angle,” Virgil repeats, through clearly-gritted teeth.

KAT LIKES SCOTT, Gordon taps. BIG CRUSH.

John nods oh-so-slightly. The corners of his mouth quirk for just a moment, which means he’s already come up with a plan. A good one, too, ‘cause it’s John.

“Every angle except one,” Cavanaugh points out. “Scott’s perspective would be invaluable! You can trust me.”

“I told you, Scott isn’t—” Virgil starts, and that’s when John strikes, slipping seamlessly into his calming, charming Space Monitor voice.

“I have an idea,” John interjects, stepping smoothly between the pair before either can say another word. “Ms. Cavanaugh, like my brother said, we can’t have you interviewing Scott right now. It’s not a matter of trust, it’s a matter of dignity. Scott has a concussion. If we let you tape him right now and put that on air, he’ll feel humiliated. He’ll never forgive us. Wouldn’t you feel the same if someone did that to you?”

“Well, I guess…” Cavanaugh has the decency to look uncomfortable, at least.

“But I think there’s a way we can get you the exclusive scoop you’re after while safeguarding Scott’s wellbeing.”

“And that is…?“

“Come with me,” John says, gesturing back the way they’d come, toward the elevator. “Let’s discuss it privately.” Then to his brothers: “You guys go ahead. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

Without waiting for a reply, John walks away. Cavanaugh only hesitates for a second or two before hurrying down the hall, struggling to keep up with John’s long, light-footed strides.

Virgil scowls at their retreating figures.

“I hate when he does that,” he says.

“Does what?” Alan asks. 

“Whatever he wants,” is Virgil’s reply.

“Yeah, but whatever he’s planning is probably gonna get the press off our backs, so I say we leave him to it,” Gordon points out. “You really want to wrangle them instead?”

“I guess not,” Virgil admits. He’s silent for a moment before sighing again. “Okay, Scott’s room isn’t far. Let’s get going before any more reporters sneak in here.”

With that, Virgil leads them down two more hallways,  then past another elevator. At the end of this hall, Virgil veers right, then stops at a wide mahogany door simply labelled 01. He knocks twice before opening the door, ushering Gordon and Alan in ahead. 

This room is big and bright and a whole bunch of other things, but the most important thing about this room is that it contains Scott Tracy. An alive, in-one-piece Scott who’s lounging on the couch with Grandma, glancing away from the TV they’d clearly been watching.

It's weird. He looks so normal. If not for Scott’s bruised face, Gordon probably wouldn't know there was anything wrong with his brother.

He's just… he’s there, relaxing. He’s right there.

He’s okay. 

Scott’s eyes settle on his brothers.

“Hey,” Scott smiles at them, raising one hand in greeting.

Chapter Text

The two teenagers stare at Scott for a long moment. They’re not twins, but they look similar- they both have blond hair and small, lean builds. One is shorter and scrawnier, swamped in an oversized hoodie that’s the same blue as his eyes. The other looks a little older, with brown eyes and tanned skin and a brightly-coloured Hawaiian shirt. 

The large, dark-haired man standing behind them closes the door quietly before making his way to one of the plush armchairs. The two teenagers follow, the taller one with a bounce in his step and a wide grin stretched across his mouth. He perches himself on one of the man’s armrests, while the smaller one hovers near Grandma for a moment. She mutes the TV display, setting the remote on the table as the boy stares at Scott.

“You’re okay,” the boy blurts. He puts an empty plastic cup on the coffee table, wringing his hands together. He bites his lip, takes a deep breath. “You… you are okay, right?”

The poor kid looks terrified, like he thinks Scott’s going to crumble into dust before his eyes. 

“Yeah, I’m okay,” Scott replies with what he hopes is a reassuring smile, and suddenly the boy isn’t hovering near Grandma anymore. He throws himself at Scott, wrapping thin arms around Scott’s shoulders as he buries his face in Scott’s chest. Scott swallows hard as the nausea spikes again. 

“Hey, I told you to be careful!” the man complains, but there’s no anger in his voice. He sets a cardboard carrier on the coffee table before shucking off his jacket, revealing red flannel.

“Careful, don’t knock his head,” Grandma interjects sharply, then her tone turns soft. “You all right, Allie?”

The boy sniffles, his shoulders starting to shake as he clings to Scott like some kind of octopus. 

“Yeah,” Allie chokes out, not sounding all right at all. Scott finds his shoulder, starts rubbing gentle circles into the tense muscle there. Allie seems to relax immediately. 

“You sure?” Scott asks, once he’s reasonably certain he won’t throw up. 

Allie nods against Scott’s chest, but doesn’t say anything. Poor kid must’ve been really worried. Are his parents around here somewhere?

“Scott, I know you said you didn’t want breakfast this morning, but I thought a shake might be easy on your stomach,” the man speaks, jerking Scott from his scattered thoughts. “We stopped to get some on the way here.”

“That’s very kind of you, Virgil,” Grandma smiles, and then she rubs Scott’s shoulder. “You’re a lucky man, your brothers are so nice to you.”

Oh. That’s right. Brothers. These are his brothers. They’re visiting. Grandma told him when she turned the TV on earlier. He’d almost forgotten.

“I am,” Scott agrees. They seem nice so far, at least.

“Not just lucky!” the taller boy adds, sucking loudly on the drink in his hand. “The luckiest. After so many years of your smother-hen-ing, we’re all just itching to turn the turntables on you. I, for one, plan to take this sacred duty very seriously.”

“Oh, good,” Virgil says. “You can hand out the drinks, then.”

“But of course!” the boy exclaims, and in a flurry of movement, there’s a cold plastic cup being pressed into Scott’s free hand. “Apple pie, for Sir Scoff himself!”

The boy takes his hand away before Scott can get his fingers around it, but Grandma  quickly wraps her hands around his before it can fall. 

“You got it?”

“Yeah, I got it,” Scott tells her, shifting his grip around the cup. She squeezes gently before letting go. Mostly out of politeness, nausea not entirely faded, he carefully raises the straw to his mouth. Just as expected, the shake tastes pretty much exactly like apple pie á la mode. “Thanks, it’s good.”

“I knew you were gonna say that,” the boy says smugly. “And for Grandma, a Very Berry Extravaganza!” 

“Thank you, Gordon,” Grandma ruffles his hair fondly before accepting her cup. Then she pauses. “Where's John? I know he came to the hotel with you…”

“John?” Scott asks. A friend? Another brother? Grandma didn’t say how many there are. Or did she? He doesn't recall- how long ago did she tell him about their visit?

“We ran into Kat Cavanaugh on the way. He’s dealing with her,” Virgil replies. 

“Kat?” Scott manages. She's obviously not a brother. But the name is familiar— have they met before? He’s not sure, and the insistent ache pounding in his head makes it hard to think.

“Oh, dude, she’s so into you,” Gordon waves an arm as he perches himself back on Virgil’s armrest. “Seriously, you gotta tell me your secrets. How do you get girls to flock to you like that? They barely look twice at me!”

“She’s so into the fame and fortune she’ll get by breaking an exclusive on the world’s hottest news story,” Virgil’s lip curls and he rolls his eyes. “Journalists.” 

“Well, I  think it’s because you’re such a thoughtful, handsome boy,” Grandma coos, pinching Scott’s cheek gently for a second. “Your parents did a wonderful job raising you. All of you. I couldn’t be prouder of you if I tried. Saving people’s lives, making the world a better place…”

Grandma’s words are sweet, but it feels weird to accept praise for something Scott doesn’t recall. And worse- he has no idea who Kat is or why journalists would want anything to do with him. Asking for details feels like a bad idea— Allie’s still clinging to Scott like a limpet, and revealing that he doesn't know what his family is talking about seems like a sure-fire way of making the poor kid even more upset than he already is.

Time to change the subject, then.

“Are they visiting soon?” Scott asks, grasping wildly at Grandma's earlier words. Then, in case it wasn’t obvious enough: “Our parents, I mean.”

It’s immediately obvious that was the wrong thing to say. Gordon’s cheerful grin slips off his face, and he nearly falls off the armchair, while Virgil goes pale, pressing his lips together uncomfortably. Grandma’s hand immediately finds Scott’s bicep, squeezing gently, and Allie shifts so that he’s no longer holding onto Scott but kneeling next to him, dislodging Scott’s hand from his back. His eyes are even wider than before, his mouth falling open with shock.

Ah. Maybe they visited earlier, and he forgot.

“Sweetheart…” Grandma starts, her next words interrupted by the door opening and closing loudly. 

“Sorry I’m late,” a skinny, red-haired man walks in. He pauses to hang his heavy woolen coat on one of the hooks near the door. “The PR team finally sent me the finished statement, so I figured I might as well read it while I saw Kat out. She’s coming to the hotel later, by the way.”

“Wait, what? John, I thought you said you were getting rid of her.” Virgil scowls, thankfully distracted from Scott's slip-up.

“And I did. I told her that she could interview me, that we'd put together a folder of never-publicly-released photos and videos for her, and then she went away happily. Don’t worry, I’ll go through all the footage before I give it to her. EOS said that most of what she's chosen is from that vacation in ‘fifty-seven, anyway, so there won't be any top-secret stuff in there.”

“Fifty-seven? Remind me where we went for that one?” Scott asks, settling for the least-potentially-upsetting question he can think of. Top-secret? EOS? Publicly-released footage? That all sounds like stuff he should know about, and yet he doesn't.

John barely even glances at him.

“Yeah, it was when we celebrated Gordon's recovery. We went to Disneyland and then rented out a beach house in Santa Monica. I think his recovery was the only reason you didn’t murder him after the sun-block incident.”

“Uh, no, I think you’ll find he didn’t murder me because I’m the funniest person alive,” Gordon tuts, waggling a finger in John’s direction. “Without me and my hilarious jokes, your lives would suck big time.” 

"You wish," Virgil mutters, earning him a savage kick to the shin. "Ow!"

“We have very different ideas of ‘funny’. You watched Scott fall asleep in the sun and painted a moustache on his face in sun-block,” John replies, with one raised eyebrow. He shrugs, addressing Scott directly. “Better you than me, though. You only turned pink. I’d have turned beetroot.”

“It wasn’t that bad! It was gone by the time we got to the island!” Gordon protests.

Judging by Virgil’s snort and Grandma’s stifled giggle, it most certainly was ‘that bad’. 

“You’re so full of it,” Allie mutters, but he’s smiling again. Even John looks a little brighter.

“Anyway, Kat wanted to show the world ‘the real Scott’, so I’ve also instructed EOS to look for any particularly thrilling rescue footage,” John continues, sinking onto the couch next to Allie. “Again, I’ll check everything and make sure no top-secret information gets leaked in her data packet.”

Rescue? Scott opens his mouth to ask, before thinking better of it. Grandma’s hand is still heavy on his arm, and while Allie’s distracted, now looking at his brothers instead of Scott, the thought of upsetting the kid even further makes his stomach sink.

Scott closes his mouth, takes a careful sip of apple-and-vanilla instead. Part of him hopes they'll go away soon. He doesn't have the energy to keep trying to guess the right things to say, much less piece together what he's supposed to know.

John regards Scott carefully for a long moment, and he slides an arm around Allie’s shoulders, gently rubbing the same spot Scott had a few minutes ago. He looks at the TV.

“Oh, good, you guys are watching Sting-ray. That’s my favourite. Can we turn it up?”

Even with a pounding headache and a creeping sense of exhaustion, Scott recognises an out when it’s given to him. 

“Sure,” he agrees, and John reaches for the remote control.

Chapter Text

The hotel room is quiet, and it’s not the comfortable kind. It’s the kind of quiet that’s heavy and makes it hard to breathe and always gives Alan a horrible feeling in his stomach. The kind that settles when there’s something wrong. The kind of something that’s too wrong and too raw to talk about, so they don’t, and everybody just ends up stewing in their own sadness.

It’s the same kind of quiet that muted everything after D— when the Zero-X thing happened. The quiet that lingered and lingered and lingered, and didn’t lift, not really, not until they moved to the island and life got way too busy for quiet. Until now, anyway.

 Grandma’s still at the hospital, at least for the next couple hours— Virgil said she'll sleep here tonight and he’ll go stay with Scott so he’s not alone. And if Alan and Gordon were really good then maybe Grandma would pick up some junky take-out on the way here. Speaking of Virgil, he passed out on the couch five minutes after sitting down with a new coffee. Gordon’s taking up all the space next to him, watching some boring deep-sea documentary on the TV even though Alan asked him like three times to choose something that’s actually fun. John’s perched on one of the armchairs next to the window, scrolling through his tablet. Kat’s not supposed to be here for another hour or so and John keeps smirking at whatever he’s working on, so maybe he’s checking the footage EOS put together for her.

Alan switches his headset off, puts it next to the half-empty box of Gordon's gross celery snacks. For the past hour or so, he’s been lounging on the floor, playing VR games with the volume on low. But no amount of killing pixel zombies or exploding CGI aliens can distract him from the elephant in the room. 

He's not stupid. He knows his family is babying him. He knows they're all much more scared than they're trying to show. Kayo’s not answering any of Alan’s messages, just leaving him on read. Grandma’s trying to act confident, but Alan’s lived with her long enough to know when she believes what she’s saying and when she doesn’t. John is being all withdrawn and cold— totally different to his normal kind of warm, watchful quiet. Gordon can’t stop cracking jokes, but his voice is all tight and his smiles are all forced. And even though Virgil is normally an even fussier smother hen than Scott when someone is sick or hurt, he’s being all calm and professional and matter-of-fact about everything. 

They’re scared. And there’s only one reason they’d be all scared, right?

“Hey,” Alan starts, before he loses his nerve.

“Ssh! Some of us are emotionally invested in the secret lives of sea anemones…” Gordon complains, throwing a piece of ranch-flavoured popcorn at Alan’s head. He misses, and it bounces into John’s half-empty glass of orange juice. John stares at the juice, his lip curling.

“You’re disgusting,” John says, flatly.

“You’re disgusting! What kind of a monster doesn’t appreciate ranch dressing?”

“The kind that doesn’t appreciate you making a mess and ruining my drinks.”

Gordon raises an eyebrow. Next to him, Virgil stirs, mumbling something that doesn’t sound much like any language Alan's heard before but probably means 'shut up'.

“Touché. Sorry, John,” Gordon raises his hands in mock-surrender before prodding Virgil in the ribs. “Hey, Virgie, you back in the land of the living? You should go lie down in an actual bed, y’know. Grandma’s gonna kill us if you show up at the hospital looking like an accordion.”

“Wuh…?” Virgil cracks his eyes open, swatting ineffectually at the spot Gordon had been poking. 

“Accordion. Your back,” Gordon speaks slowly. “Pick a better spot to sleep if you don’t want to look like a shrimp.”

“Who’s a shrimp?” Virgil yawns, slowly levering himself back upright. He freezes, wincing. “Ow, my back.”

Gordon pats him on the shoulder. 

“Told you so,” he says. “Coffee?”

“Mm,” Virgil blinks slowly. “Heat pack, too.”

“Gotcha.”

Gordon rolls off the couch, quickly stepping over Alan, and heads to the kitchenette. Which is a perfect opportunity for Alan to steal his nice, warm spot and turn off that stupid documentary. Celebrity Alligator Wrestling is way better.

“Hey! I was watching that!” 

“Aren’t you making coffee?” John asks. 

“I can multi-task!” Gordon protests, shoving a mug under the coffee machine spout.

Alan snickers, leaning over the backrest to gloat at his brother. “You snooze, you lose!”

“Who’s snoozing? Virgil was snoozing, why don’t you take his seat instead?” 

“He’s too heavy! I can't roll him off!”

Gordon lets out a melodramatic sigh. He’s grinning again, but this time it’s a real grin and not one of his fake ones. He must be enjoying this. He’s always liked play-arguing, ever since they were kids. Used to drive Grandma and Scott mad. Sometimes Alan wonders if it drove their parents mad, too. Did Gordon do it when Mom was alive, or was he too little back then?

“Well, that just means you need to hit the gym,” Gordon digs in a cupboard near the fridge, where Grandma stuffed a whole bunch of random first aid stuff she’d hastily grabbed from the infirmary before they came, knowing exactly how prone to accidents her grandsons were. “Aha! Heat pack! Virgie, think fast!”

Something red flies through the air. Alan barely manages to catch it before it lands in the popcorn bowl, handing it to a still-drowsy Virgil.

“Thanks,” Virgil manages. He cracks the internal mechanism, shakes it, and then lays it across the back of his neck, sighing with relief. “Mm. Better.”

Gordon appears a few moments later with a cup of hot coffee, pressing it into Virgil’s hand before squeezing himself between Alan and the armrest. He doesn’t try to steal the TV remote back, which is weird. Gordon hates reality TV almost as much as John does, and neither of them have complained yet. 

Virgil slurps contentedly at his coffee, and Gordon picks up his bowl of popcorn again, and John’s back to staring at his tablet, and even though the volume on the TV is turned up loud, it’s quiet again. The bad quiet. Alan has that uncomfortable feeling in his stomach again. 

He bites his lip. They should talk about Scott— really talk, not plaster over everything with a smile like Virgil keeps doing. Then maybe they won’t feel scared any more and maybe the quietness will lift and they’ll be okay again. 

Alan takes a deep breath, then mutes the TV. Gordon shoots him a weird look, but Alan ignores him.

“Are we gonna talk about it?” he asks.

“Talk about what?” Virgil asks, draining the last of his coffee. He leans forward and sets the empty mug on the table. 

“Scott.”

“What’s there to talk about?” Gordon chuckles, but it sounds wrong to Alan’s ear. Gordon smacks his shoulder playfully. “Scott’s got the mother of all concussions. He’ll be fine. He always is.”

“But what if he’s not?” Alan asks. “You saw him earlier. He wasn’t him. He was all… y’know...” 

Alan trails off, not sure how to describe Scott. The real Scott is so many things— smart, confident, reliable, cool— and the Scott in the hospital earlier just… wasn’t. He didn’t have that sharp look in his eyes, he didn’t have that soothing smile, and the way he moved was all sluggish and clumsy. 

“It’s just the concussion,” Virgil says, using that stupid fake-calm voice again. 

“I know what concussion looks like,” Alan tells him. “You had it last month after Gordon screwed up that rescue in Tasmania.”

“That was one time!” Gordon protests. 

“We’ve all had it,” Alan continues. “And it never looked like that before.”

Virgil nods, but he’s not making eye contact and his jaw is all tight. 

“I know,” he says, and he pauses for a second before looking at his youngest brother. “Allie, you have to understand that Scott was hit really hard. Like, really hard. He has a broken skull. I’m not—“ Virgil stops, rubs his eyes, sighs, and then starts again. “I wouldn’t lie to you, you know that, right?”

Alan hesitates, but he nods anyway. Sometimes Virgil tries to protect Alan by putting a positive spin on stuff, but he doesn’t leave out bits of the truth and he definitely doesn’t lie.

“Okay.” Virgil takes a deep breath. “You’re right in that this isn’t a normal, mild concussion. It's actually pretty severe— he was hurt badly enough to get disoriented. You remember what I said about disorientation earlier?”

Alan nods again. 

“It’s temporary,” he mumbles. 

“That’s right. It’s temporary. He won’t be like that forever. And when he’s not disoriented anymore, we’ll have a better idea of his prognosis— how long it’ll take for him to get better.”

Alan grits his teeth. Virgil’s doing it again. He’s trying to make everything seem okay and it isn’t. 

“What if he doesn’t?” Alan asks, and his voice goes all weak even though he’s trying to be strong. 

“He will. Everything is okay,” Virgil insists, and Alan could scream because this— all of this— is about as far from okay as it can get. If ‘okay’ is Tracy Island, then they’re not just on the other side of the world, they’re in space. And not the close kind of space, like Thunderbird Five or the moon, they’re on Saturn or Uranus or maybe even Pluto. 

Scott couldn’t hold a cup without Grandma’s help. He didn’t look at them right— Scott always gets this soft, crinkly look around his eyes when he looks at his family, no matter how annoyed or tired he is, and this time he didn’t do that. And he kept repeating names like he didn’t know who they meant— Kat, Alan kinda understands because Scott has to talk to a lot of people so maybe he doesn’t remember her, but John? And worse…

“But he didn’t know anything! He didn’t even know that Mom and Dad…” Alan trails off, bursting into tears before he can finish his sentence, and suddenly he’s surrounded by soft, paint-scented flannel and Virgil’s soothing voice fills his ears.

“Ssh, I know, I know…”

Alan opens his mouth to reply, to beg for more answers, but all that comes out of his throat is more sobbing. He presses his too-hot face into Virgil’s shoulder and clings tightly to his biggest brother, his fingers barely meeting across Virgil’s back. And then Gordon joins in, squeezing them both in an unmistakable squid-hug.

“He’ll get better, Alan,” Virgil promises.

“But what if he doesn’t?” Alan croaks. He knows he shouldn’t say stuff like that, knows he shouldn’t tempt the universe ‘cause it seems to hate the Tracy family enough already. But he needs to know. What happens if Scott isn’t Scott anymore?

A hand lands on Alan’s shoulder, and he’d know John by touch alone even if Virgil and Gordon weren’t already hugging him. Nobody else’s hands feel so light— Virgil’s are firm and steady 'cause he has to be to tinker with heavy machinery like he does and Gordon’s  are a little too forceful ‘cause he’s always moving against the weight of water, but John’s used to being super gentle in zero-G, where the slightest touch can send everything spinning out of control.

“Then we’ll be there for him,” John’s voice is soft, the kind of soft Alan’s only ever heard a handful of times before, when Alan was much smaller and much sadder and the story of Mom’s star was the only thing that helped him sleep. “We’ll be there for as long as it takes.”

“What if—“ Alan gasps between sobs, barely getting the words out  “— takes f’rever?”

“Then we’ll be there forever,” is Virgil’s immediate answer, his voice rumbling through Alan’s skin, his fingers combing through Alan’s hair. Virgil doesn’t move, the rock he is, just keeps holding Alan as he wails like a little kid.

“C’mon, Allie, think about it.” Gordon’s breath is warm next to Alan’s ear. “We’re the Tracy family. We do whatever it takes to save people. And we’ll do whatever it takes to save Scott, too.”

“And that includes being patient and not assuming the worst,” Virgil says. “You think you can do that?”

Alan shakes his head, trying to remember how to breathe again, and Virgil sighs. 

“Allie, Scott needs us to trust him now more than ever. Let’s try, okay?”

“Yeah, this is Scott we’re talking about— he’s not going down without a fight,” Gordon adds. “He’s gonna do everything he can to come home with us and get back in Thunderbird One. Anything to stop me flying her.”

Alan hadn’t thought about that. He hadn’t thought about International Rescue at all. That’s bad— he’s supposed to be a rescue expert and he didn't even think about people who might need help because he was so caught up with this.

Alan sucks in more air, tries to stop his breath hitching.

“What’s happening while we’re here?” he manages, lifting his face away from Virgil’s chest. He manages to suppress a new sob, wiping his face with his sleeve. “Who’s helping people?”

“The GDF,” John answers, with a calming smile. “EOS is manning Thunderbird Five and rerouting all calls to them and nearby first responder units. There’s no need to worry— we may be the best at rescuing people, but we’re not the only search and rescue team in the world. The world isn’t going to end because we’re out of action for a few weeks.”

A few weeks. So they just have to make it through a few weeks and it’ll all be okay again. Scott will be back to normal and they’ll be back home on the island and they’ll be back to helping people just like they always do. And nobody’s going to get hurt because International Rescue is grounded.

Relief floods Alan, so much relief that it overflows and tears start pouring out of his eyes.

“You made him cry again!” Gordon hisses, before stroking Alan’s arm. “Hey, Allie, it’s okay…”

“I know…” Alan gasps, wiping his face again.

“You must have been really scared, huh?” Virgil asks. “I’m sorry. I should have known.”

“’S okay,” Alan mumbles, between sobs, and Virgil wraps him in another big bear-hug, quickly followed by Gordon. This time even John gets in on it, kneeling in front of the couch to give Alan the opportunity to lean on him.

A few weeks. Alan can do that. That’s one trip to Mars and back. Just be positive and upbeat for a few weeks.

Easy. 

Alan's big brothers stay where they are, surrounding him in a warm, soothing, solid blanket of limbs and hair and reassuring whispers.

The hotel room is quiet again, but this time it doesn’t feel bad. 

Chapter Text

The lab is silent, save for the usual gentle humming of bright overhead lights and various pieces of machinery. The clock on the wall reads 07:26, gentle morning sunlight just starting to illuminate the parts of the Thunderbird hangar visible through the doorway.

Brains crouches behind a plastic shield on the eastern side of the room, then gives MAX a thumbs-up. He bleeps an affirmative and takes careful aim at the mannequin head duct-taped to a pole about four metres away in the centre of the lab. A roughly oval-shaped box is taped to the head, about the size of a bar of soap. Brains counts down mentally: 

Five… four… three… two… one… Prototype 12 is go!

MAX gently tosses a ping-pong ball at the mannequin head. Before it hits the mannequin, there's a brief flash of light. A roughly bell-shaped structure flares into existence, projected from the box. A shield, or at least it's supposed to be. A force-field projected around the wearer's head.

The ping-pong ball ricochets off the shield with such force that it knocks Brains’ mug of coffee off the desk, and the shield dissipates in the time it takes Brains to blink. He sighs, looking down at pieces of shattered ceramic, dark liquid seeping across the tiles. It had been fresh coffee, too.

That's a definite failure. The deflection force is still far too strong. While the person wearing the shield projector would be perfectly safe, the same could not be said of those around them. And while that’s a risk some of Brains’ past clients would have been willing to take, it’s against Brains’ own personal ethos, and that of the Tracy family. Plus, the projection unit is still too inefficient, too bulky. It's almost out of battery already, and they've only done eight tests this morning.

Brains sighs, turns to MAX.

“Number 12 is a no-go,” he says, and MAX bleeps sadly. “P-perhaps if I reworked the shield in order to provide shock absorption, rather than d-deflection…”

That could work. The projectile would still be a problem once gravity took hold of it, but a bullet or a brick dropped on one’s foot would be far less serious than a full-force blow to the head.

Once the coffee and remains of the mug are cleaned up, replaced with a fresh cup courtesy of MAX, Brains calls up 12’s schematics on his holo-desk and begins reconfiguring the device. Or, at least he does until a call notification pops up on the display.

Virgil.

Of course Brains answers. Even if he hadn’t been waiting anxiously for an update on Scott’s condition— Mrs Tracy’s last text message had been about six hours ago— Virgil has long been one of his most brilliant-minded friends, ever since they met at university all those years ago. A conversation with him is probably just what Brains needs to really get this new project rolling.

“Hello, Virgil. How is he?”

Virgil looks exhausted, even through the hologram. There are dark smudges under his eyes and his hair is falling in greasy-looking strings from his gelled pompadour. There’s a five o’clock shadow blurring the edge of his jaw, and drops of something dark and suspiciously coffee-like staining the lapels of his flannel. He hasn’t looked this tired since his last bout of ‘flu. Worrying, given that the time in New York should be approximately half past three in the afternoon.

“He’s fine. Scott’s fine.”

“Good,” Brains allows himself a moment to bask in his relief. “And what about you? How is everybody else holding up?”

“We’re fine, too,” Virgil says, waving a hand. “John’s asleep right now– I’ll wake him up before I go back to the hospital. Gordon’s handling this whole thing like a champ. And Alan is okay now.”

“Now?”

“Scott was really out of it when we visited him earlier and Alan was distressed. Totally understandable. I mean, I’m distressed too, and Scott’s basically his third parent. It’s all fine now, though. We’re just waiting for the worst of Scott’s concussion to pass, and then we'll have another visit.”

“Ah, so the d-doctors confirmed it’s just a c-concussion? I see… Scott is a very lucky man.”

The footage that’s been playing on the news reports had looked awful: Scott, walking up the steps outside the headquarters, turning his head to smile at a pretty female reporter. The brick. A crumpling figure. Blood on the small ornamental wall next to the entrance. Scott face-down on the flagstones, the camera operator’s hand reaching out to touch his back before the camera feed cut out.

A truly chilling incident. One that might have been avoided had Brains thought to provide Scott with some form of protection before he left the island. And that’s exactly what Brains has been working on since the family left for New York. He knows his own limits, though: he’s taken a few cat-naps to keep his mind and body sharp and MAX has been supplying him with water, coffee, and small meals at regular intervals. Otherwise, finding a way to stop this happening again has been Brains’ top priority.

The fact that Scott was injured so little is incredible- if Brains were religious, he'd be tempted to call it a miracle. Unfortunately there isn’t much Brains can do to help with a concussion, but perhaps he could build on his previous micro-technology research into molecular construction. He has several associates specialising in neuroscience who might be willing to partner with him. Building new brain cells must surely be easier than building a hotel, right? But if Scott is merely concussed, he’ll have recovered long before Brains has a working prototype...

Brains shakes his head. It's still worth looking into. He may not be able to help Scott with his current predicament, but perhaps he can make any future recoveries far swifter. Although if Brains can get his new shield-generator working correctly, that won’t be a problem any more.

“Well, he has a broken skull too,” Virgil says, breaking the long moment of silence that has stretched between them. His face twists in a grimace. “And he broke his nose when he hit the ground."

“I was afraid it would be m-much worse."

"You're not alone in that," Virgil manages a small, reassuring smile before changing the subject. “So, how are things on the island?”

"The same as always, just qu-quieter. I’m currently t-testing some new prototypes, though I’m not getting very far.”

Truthfully, it feels a little strange to be here all alone. The island is normally alive with noise. The echoes of someone (usually Gordon) splashing in the pool. The deep rumbling of Thunderbird engines during take-off and landing. Ominous clanking noises coming from the kitchen (generally courtesy of Mrs. Tracy). At least one brother tinkering with something in one of the nearby workshops or hangers. Virgil’s music drifting softly through the air, whether from his piano or his radio.

“New prototypes?” Virgil brightens visibly. “Tell me about them. I could use the distraction.”

“Are your b-brothers giving you that much t-trouble?” Brains asks, hoping that his question comes across as the joke he intends, rather than something serious. He’s never been very good at jokes: according to Gordon and Scott, only John is worse. Or possibly EOS.

“Gordon is always trouble,” Virgil says, much louder than he really needs to. There’s a faint ‘hey!’ in the background, and Virgil chuckles before turning away from the camera. “C’mon, you know it’s true!”

Laughter. That’s something the Tracy family sorely needs. They must be incredibly upset, even with the good news so far. Brains can scarcely imagine how anxious and helpless they must feel.

Virgil turns back to Brains, still grinning.

"So easy," he chuckles. "Little brothers, huh?"

"I w-wouldn't know," Brains replies. He's an only child. Living with the Tracy family has left him simultaneously glad of that fact and jealous of their close bonds. 

"Oh, right." Virgil clears his throat. "So, about the prototypes?" 

"Well, I've b-been working on a shielding device. A p-projected forcefield that automatically d-detects high-velocity objects and d-deflects them." 

"Oh?" Virgil blinks. "That sounds useful. Mind sending me the schematics, so I can take a look?" 

"Of course."

It only takes a single swipe to securely transfer the data to Virgil's comm unit, thanks to Thunderbird Five's lightning-fast connection. Virgil nods, making a pleased sound as he peruses Brains' schematics.

"Twelve was the latest attempt. I'm working on thirteen as we s-speak."

"I see…" Virgil pauses, grimacing. He must be watching MAX's recording of the last test. "Oh, man. That's a pretty strong deflection. We should tone that down."

"P-precisely what I was thinking. Any ideas?" 

"Uh… yeah, I think I got a few…" Virgil murmurs. His hands are moving, presumably tweaking and adding to Brains' design. "I guess the structure of the shield itself might be part of the problem. Instead of one strong projected unit, maybe it should be a dozen smaller, less powerful ones?" 

That's one of the variations Brains had been considering. But that came with its own issues. 

"I'm worried about p-potential weak spots. If a b-bullet were to find its way through a gap b-between the smaller units…" 

"Oh, yeah... Um, maybe you could layer up the shield and offset the pattern of the pieces in each layer?" 

"That's a good idea."

"And in your notes here you mentioned shock absorption..."

"The layering would help with that," Brains muses. If he could tweak the shield deflection to a low enough force, he's sure it would work. "I'm also unhappy with the size of the p-projector itself. It's currently far too big to fit c-comfortably on the ear. It is supposed to be d-discreet." 

"Maybe a smaller battery unit is a good place to start?" Virgil hazards a guess. "Sorry, I don't know if I can help with that part. My speciality is multi-use and modular tech, you know?" 

That's true- they do have very different fields of expertise. Brains isn't sure if Virgil focused on multi-use technology out of a personal interest, or if his graduate research projects had simply been an extension of his training for Thunderbird Two. Either way, there's little overlap in their research interests outside of the Thunderbirds, though Virgil is always willing to lend an ear to Brains’ musings. 

"D-don't worry. I'm not expecting p-perfection right off the bat. I'm just looking for ideas, a spark of inspiration." 

Frankly, anything will help. The sooner he can get a decently working prototype finished, the safer everybody is going to be.

"I can relate. Nothing worse than sitting down to finish a painting, only to find that my muse is gone.” Virgil frowns, reaching off-camera for one of his ever-present cups of coffee. “Man, I should’ve brought my sketchbook with me. I wonder if the art stores are still gonna be open later…”

“Of c-course they will be,” Brains replies. “New York is the city that never sleeps. They’ll probably even d-deliver to your hotel room if you ask nicely.”

Virgil nods thoughtfully. 

“I can be nice,” he says, before snapping his head to the right, glaring offscreen. “Hey, I heard that, Gords!” 

Gordon’s laughter filters through the speakers for a few seconds as Virgil fiddles with the comm unit settings. He makes a shoo-ing gesture before turning back to the camera.

“Brothers. Can’t live with them, can’t live without them,” Virgil rolls his eyes before straightening his back and squaring his shoulders. “Okay, smaller unit, less violent shielding. Let’s see what we can do…”

Chapter Text

The sky in New York is the same sort of overcast white-grey Penelope had hoped they’d left behind at Heathrow. It’s much colder here than home, but at least this rented car has excellent climate control. It’s lovely and toasty in here: almost warm enough to make Penny consider taking off her coat. She’s a little too fond of her coat, though. It’s from the newest Lemaire collection, made of soft and comfortable wool, finished with a lovely little capelet and dark lace trim. 

The view through the mirrored window is both bleak and majestic, in the way that only a very large, very old city can be. Skyscrapers stretching up and up and up, out of view, all glittering, shiny glass. Wide pavements packed with people rushing to and fro even so late in the morning, brightly-lit storefronts, faded stickers advertising concerts and bars stuck beside electronic billboards. And despite the fact most people use public transport these days, the streets of Manhattan still somehow manage to be almost entirely jammed with unmoving vehicles.

"I 'ate New York…" Parker mutters, hunched over the steering wheel.

"It is rather gridlocked, isn't it?" Penelope agrees. Sherbet yaps on her lap, and she reaches down to pet him. "There, there… how long until we're at the restaurant?”

"I'm not sure, milady," Parker says. He frowns into the rearview mirror. "We're h'only about two blocks h'away. But the way the traffic's going… well, could be h'anywhere between two minutes and two 'ours."

"Oh, that’s unfortunate…” Penelope purses her lips and thinks for a moment. “Well, perhaps I ought to get out and walk."

"You can't do that, h'what if you get mugged? Can't trust h'anybody on these h'awful streets!"

"I'm sure it'll be fine," Penelope insists. "There are cameras everywhere, and I'm perfectly capable of looking after myself. And besides, I'll have dear little Sherbet to protect me. Isn't that right, Sherbet?"

Sherbet yaps again, his stubby little tail wagging excitedly.

"Then it's settled,” Penelope decides, without waiting for an answer. “I’ll go ahead and meet you there. Would you like the same as usual?”

Parker sighs, clearly understanding that Penelope will not be budging.

“Yes, milady.”

“Good man. I’ll see you shortly.”

Penelope swings her handbag over her shoulder, scoops up her gift bags (one for Scott, plus another filled with various snacks and sweets for the rest of the family to enjoy) and opens the door.

“Darling, I’m afraid you’ll have to walk,” Penelope tells Sherbet. At least she thought to put his adorable little walking booties on him this morning: early spring in New York is far colder than in London, frost still falling upon the city each night.

Sherbet leaps out of the car, waiting obediently on the pavement. Penny follows, carefully closing the car door before making her way along the street. It’s familiar and brand-new, all at once, the smell of exhaust fumes and sea air filling her nose.

While Penelope has visited New York before, it's always been for work: just a few days for Fashion Week, a gala, or a magazine shoot. This isn’t a pleasure trip, given the circumstances, but it’ll be nice to be able to take her time travelling the city instead of hurrying frantically from place to place. She would have arrived sooner, but… well. It had seemed prudent to allow the Tracy family a little time to process the situation: two days, counted from when John notified her first thing on Tuesday morning. Though she loves them dearly, she’s not really part of the family, is she? It would be terribly inappropriate to insert herself into their private affairs, no matter how worried she feels.

It takes only three or four minutes of walking before she reaches the restaurant Mrs Tracy and the boys are waiting at. It's not the sort of place Penny would have chosen, but it certainly isn’t unpleasant: a casual sandwich bar not far from Bryant Park. It’s surprisingly quiet at this time of day, only a handful of customers sitting indoors, and none of them seem to recognise the Tracy family.

In all fairness, it seems like they’re doing their best to avoid sticking out. John has put the most effort into a disguise, having gelled his hair into one of those deliberate messes and perching a pair of mirrored aviators on his nose– probably because the TV stations are all still playing his statement from yesterday whenever they're not dissecting his interview with Kat Cavanaugh. Gordon has parted his hair neatly, wearing a smart turtleneck sweater instead of his usual colourful Hawaiian shirts. Alan and Mrs Tracy look more or less the same as always, though Alan’s wearing jeans instead of shorts and Mrs Tracy’s usual bright jumpsuit has been replaced by a muted blouse and dark pants. Perhaps Penelope should have chosen the camel-coloured coat today instead of the crimson…

Before Penelope can decide whether to head back to the car to change her coat, John spots her. His lips quirk and he raises a hand in a discreet half-wave. According to his updates, Gordon and Alan are having a fantastic time sightseeing in New York, despite Scott’s current circumstances. Or perhaps because of it— trying to make the most of a bad situation, trying to keep their spirits up as Scott would probably want them to do. He's always been a good sport like that.

Well, there’s only one thing for it, then. Penelope waves back with a bright smile and makes her way to their table, slipping gracefully into the seat next to Mrs Tracy.

“Good day,” Penny greets them politely, before placing her gift bags carefully under the table and scooping Sherbet up onto her lap. “Sherbet says ‘hello’, too.”

“Hi, Penny,” Mrs Tracy replies. She reaches down to give Sherbet a pat on the head, spurring a chorus of greetings from the boys. 

“So, uh, how are you doing, Penny?" Gordon asks. He looks a little peaky, a little pink. Hopefully he isn't sick: the Tracy family are already a man down. "Was the journey okay?" 

"It went very well,” Penelope says. “Those new Fireflashes are awfully fast— we were only in the air for about three hours. Very convenient.”

“We’re glad to hear it, Penny,” Mrs Tracy smiles. “Now, you must be hungry…”

John waves the waitress over, and Penny orders for herself and Parker. 

“Please can we have a small bowl of water, for my sweet little boy here?” she adds.

“Of course, ma’am,” the waitress says, scribbling a note on her tablet. 

“Thank you, dear,” Penny smiles at her before turning back to the Tracy family. “Now, boys. I hear you’re doing some sight-seeing today. How is that going?”

“We went to the United Nations museum and learnt about history and stuff,” Alan says. “And then we went to Central Park. It’s so big! I knew it was big, but you could fit a whole city in there!”

“Did you know they have a zoo there?” Gordon asks. “I didn’t. There’s this cool little pond near there, too. Tons of fish.”

“Gordy wanted to go swimming, but John wouldn’t let him,” Alan says, in a stage whisper.

“No, I didn’t!” Gordon exclaims. He pauses, looks at Penny. “Er— I mean, I did say that, but I meant at an actual pool and stuff. You’re welcome to... uh…” He pauses, blushing an impressive shade of crimson, and John leaps in. 

“What Gordon means is that we’re going on one of those ‘city-by-night’ architectural tours when Virgil comes back from the hospital. Did you want to join us? We’ll be visiting the Chrysler and Empire State buildings, and a couple other places. I think the Rockerfeller Center is on the list, too.”

“It sounds delightful,” Penny agrees, dutifully ignoring Alan’s snickering despite how adorable Gordon looks when he’s embarrassed. Little brothers must really be a handful. She’s almost glad she hasn’t got any. To save Gordon turning any redder, she changes the subject. “Now, before I forget, I brought a gift for Scott. I thought that he might still be feeling poorly, so I brought some tea with me. Do they have hot water facilities in the hospital room?” 

Scott's gift bag contains a small teapot, a generous box of Penelope’s preferred breakfast blend, a tin of chocolate biscuits, and a box of the fudge he's always been fond of.

“There’s no kettle, but they do have room service,” Mrs Tracy replies. “I’m sure the staff will help. Thank you, Penny. Scott will appreciate it.”

Scott generally doesn’t drink tea these days. He relies on coffee too much, she hardly ever sees him without a cup in his hand, dark circles starting to form under his eyes after yet another night of not-quite-enough sleep. But when they were younger— much younger, when Penny had still been in primary school— Scott had been more than happy to drink his own weight in sweet, milky tea. According to her father, during the Tracy family’s visot to the Creighton-Ward manor during the boys' first summer holiday in England, a seven-year-old Scott had gleefully snuck into the parlour and done just that. He’d also greedily eaten every single biscuit and cake the housekeeper had laid out for the family’s afternoon tea at the same time, caught red-handed (or rather, chocolate-handed) by Lillian as she hurried in to add toasted crumpets and sandwiches to the table before the families arrived to begin their tea. 

‘Scoff Tracy’ indeed. 

“For the rest of you, I’ve brought some goodies to enjoy while you’re on holiday,” Penelope holds up the second, slightly larger, gift bag, and the two younger Tracys immediately pounce, rifling through it to take inventory (and first dibs on their most preferred snacks). A loud buzzing noise cuts through their bickering and John frowns, holding up his cellphone. 

“Sorry, I need to take this,” he says, and he hurries out. 

“Hey, no fair! You can’t claim all those gummies!” Alan exclaims. 

“I can and I will, you tried to take all the chocolate!” 

“Did not!”

“Did too! And now these are mine!” 

“How is Scott, anyway?” Penelope asks, turning her head to face Mrs Tracy. The way her mouth tightens tells Penny everything she needs to know: not well.

“He’s mostly okay, but he’d got an awful concussion. Could barely stomach dry toast and yogurt yesterday, and I’ve seen newborn foals prance around with more grace. Poor boy even has a broken nose, skull and a giant pair of raccoon eyes.”

That does sound quite bad. Nevertheless, it’s much better than Penny had feared: of course she knows John or Mrs Tracy would have called her if the worst had happened, but waiting for news had been difficult. Kayo and John’s text-message reassurances that Scott was still alive had given her some semblance of relief, but ‘alive’ is a somewhat low bar, isn’t it?

“That can’t be fun for him. I do hope he recovers soon.”

“Me too,” Mrs Tracy replies, quietly. Her shoulders are slumped, her head tilted. “He’s getting better, but…”

“But what?” 

Mrs Tracy shakes her head. 

“Not here,” she says. Then, louder: “Hey, cut it out! Put that stuff back in the bag, you’re in the presence of a lady!”

While they were distracted, it seems that the boys managed to make quite a mess of the table, candies and snacks and packaging strewn everywhere. Penelope plays along as she usually does when with Mrs Tracy, fixing the boys with a mildly disapproving gaze. 

“Really,” she sighs, petting Sherbet. “I expected better.”

Both Tracys sober immediately. 

“Sorry ma’am,” Alan says, as Gordon says “sorry, milady.”

Gordon elbows Alan none too gently. 

“You’re supposed to call her ‘milady’!” he hisses, still pink. “She’s an actual, literal lady! With a title and stuff!” 

“But we know her!” Alan protests. 

“I don’t really mind,” Penny admits. “But please do put those snacks away. It’s awfully rude to eat things brought from outside in a restaurant.”

It takes the boys significantly longer to clean the table than it did for them to mess it up, but they manage to finish just as the waitress returns with Penelope’s order. 

“Here you are, ma’am,” she says.

“Thank you,” Penelope replies. Movement by the door catches her eye: a very tired-looking Parker, accompanied by John. She scratches Sherbet’s head and motions to the floor. “Get down, dear, I'll pour you some water. Let’s have our lunch, hm?”

“Sorry for the h’wait, milady,” Parker says, as soon as he’s within earshot. 

“There’s no need to apologise,” Penny replies, gesturing at the table. Next to her chair, Sherbet happily slurps at his bowl of water. “Look at your excellent timing! Now, sit down and rest, my good man. We’ve had long day.“

“I’ll say…” Parker mutters, as he takes a seat. “Spent most of it sitting in traffic…” 

“Who was it?” Mrs Tracy asks, as John returns to his chair. 

“Scott’s secretary, Emma,” John replies. “We’ve rescheduled the board meeting— we need to run it before the delegates go home, so it’s happening this afternoon. And Kayo asked me to give one of the case detectives a call.”

“You heard from Kayo?” Mrs Tracy asks. “Is she all right?”

“She sent me a text message,” John clarifies. “She’s fine, though. EOS would tell me if she weren’t.”

“I see…” Mrs Tracy doesn’t look convinced, but she drops the subject anyway. 

“Wait, this afternoon?” Alan pipes up. “What, so you’re gonna miss our awesome Times Square adventure?”

John shoots him a tight smile. 

“Looks like it. I’ll try to make it back in time for the night tour, though.”

Alan visibly deflates, so Penny reaches over and lays a hand on his shoulder. 

“You know, I’ve never had the chance to explore New York before,” she tells him. “If the pair of you don’t mind, I’d love to come on this Times Square adventure with you. Perhaps we could explore together?”

“That’d be totally awesome!” Gordon perks up immediately, nudging his little brother in the arm. “Hey, Alan, you gotta be cool, okay?”

“I can be cool! I’m cooler than you!”

“Oh, really? How many gold medals do you have?” 

“Uh…” Alan pretends to think. “How about seventy-two in Cavern Quest, huh? I’ve been the annual tourney champion three years in a row!”

“I meant real medals!” 

“I earned them, that makes them real!” 

“They’re holograms, Alan!”

Penelope can’t help but chuckle at their bickering. She turns back to Mrs Tracy. 

“They’re awfully spirited, aren’t they?”

“Never any other way.” Mrs Tracy pats Penelope on the shoulder with a smile. “Good luck, Penny.”

“H’we’re going to need it…”

Chapter Text

The silence of the hospital room is broken only by the gentle bleeping of Scott's heart monitor and the persistent, irritating sound of his fingers restlessly drumming on the couch armrest.

Virgil carefully ignores his brother. He takes yet another sip of coffee, flicks through yet another page of GDF reports and legal papers. He's not stupid, he knows he's not– but half of this stuff feels like it's written in another language. It's all weirdly obtuse, legalese jargon, spiced up with figures and percentages that almost make sense, but never quite do.

How on earth had Scott been able to keep up with all of these?

Virgil bites his lip. Maybe he could ask John for help. John likes paperwork, doesn’t he? It’s a big part of his job on Five, and Virgil’s seen some of his published scientific articles— John’s a certified genius, he’d probably understand most of this, right?

Scott groans, a low, pained noise that jerks Virgil out of his thoughts, heart in his mouth. His head snaps up, ready to leap into actio— oh. Scratch that, Scott's fine. Still lounging unhappily on the couch, tapping his slippers against the carpet. He’s just restless.

As annoying as Scott’s constant shifting and moving and tapping has been, today's bored, restless Scott is much better than the passive, confused ghost from yesterday. He’s still clearly not quite himself– he hasn't attempted to escape or to discharge himself yet, and he hasn't asked at all about any of the topics he usually cares deeply about: his brothers and Kayo, their friends and allies, International Rescue, or the board meeting he was here for in the first place. But this is better. It’s better.

“I’m bored…" Scott whines.

“Did you finish the algebra already?” Virgil asks, willing his heart to stop beating quite so fast, thanks.

“Yeah.”

“What about the trigonometry?”

“It’s too easy,” Scott replies. “It took less than ten minutes.”

Getting Scott to pass the time by doing math been a stroke of genius, if Virgil does say so himself. He came up with it after Grandma started talking about memory loss and brain damage. The math is partly an assessment of just how scrambled Scott’s brain is, but mostly a distraction for Virgil’s increasingly jittery brother. For the last hour or so, Scott’s been solving problems from Alan’s most recent math textbooks. He’d needed a little prodding to stay on-task, but Virgil had been expecting that between the concussion and Scott’s general resistance to resting.

Scott’s always been good at math— all pilots are, and so are most businessmen, but Scott is something else. He’d been an avid mathlete back in high school, competing at the state and national levels. These days, in Scott’s rare moments of downtime, it’s not unusual to see him reading books on new mathematical theories or attempting to solve some newly-devised problem.

“Can I see?” Virgil asks, holding one hand. Scott sighs, gives him the tablet.

“Go ahead.”

It only takes a second to bring up the auto-marking feature. Looks like Scott got everything correct. Good.

“Okay, I’ll ask John for some of his college math books.”

Scott nods, making a noise of affirmation. He remains quiet for a moment longer before leaning over and batting clumsily at Virgil’s arm.

“Hey, where's my wallet? I wanna go get something to eat."

“Just order something from room service. They'll put it on our bill."

"But I want to go out."

That's a bad idea on so many levels. The paparazzi are still camped outside, though there are fewer of them than before. The idea of letting Scott outside before consulting Kayo fills Virgil with dread. As she requested, he won't call her until Scott is no longer disoriented. Scott probably won't manage that until the weekend at least, because he's got to pass his Westmead tests for three days in a row to be considered 'oriented'. And besides…

"Uh, you can't even walk in a straight line," Virgil says, raising an eyebrow at his brother.

“Can, too,” Scott mutters, crossing his arms and fixing Virgil with a glare.

“Okay, show me.” Virgil gestures to the open space between the coffee table and the entertainment display.

Scott rolls his eyes and pulls himself to his feet. He sways slightly before putting one foot carefully in front of the other, almost toppling over. In any other situation, the sight might be hilarious: Scott’s frowning with concentration, his mouth pressed tightly closed and arms outstretched for balance. Like a drunken partygoer trying to prove he's still sober enough to drive.

Virgil's stomach suddenly feels very heavy.

"Urgh…" Scott stops and covers his mouth, looking distictly paler. "Now I'm sick again."

"Grandma warned you about the vertigo before she left," Virgil tells him. "Sit down. I'll get you an ice pack and some water, and you can order dinner when you feel better."

Normally, Scott would try to convince Virgil that he's fine, really, it's totally normal to collapse or projectile vomit or run a two-degree fever or whatever else it was that caught Virgil's attention in the first place. But now, instead of protesting, Scott just nods.

He shuffles back to the couch, this time using a nearby armchair to keep himself upright. He accepts the cold-pack without a single complaint, pressing it over his nose and eyes. He doesn’t even protest as Virgil opens the water for him, pushing the bottle into his hand. Maybe, Virgil thinks with no small degree of hope, this means that Scott remembers how much of a pain trying to shave and brush his teeth was this morning.

"When is Grandma coming back?" Scott asks, after a couple slow, careful sips of water.

"Not sure. She's having dinner with Penny and the others," Virgil glances at the clock on the wall: four-something in the afternoon. "She'll be here tonight, though."

Scott clearly isn’t happy to hear that, opening his mouth to speak. He’s interrupted by a knock at the door.

A nurse? But they usually come on a schedule here. Virgil isn’t expecting any more visitors, unless John decides to stop by after the board meeting meeting— not likely, considering how detached he’s been during this whole mess. Even if he were inclined to visit, he won’t be done for another hour or so.

“Uh… hello?” Virgil calls, rising from his armchair, and the door opens. The woman who enters is dressed in a crisp blue skirt-suit, with matching patent heels. Her long dreadlocks are pulled back into a ponytail, and she’s carrying a dark briefcase.

“Good afternoon,” she greets them. “My name is Hannah Adebayo, I’m a detective from the GDF-NYPD joint investigations office. Your brother said that I could stop by.”

“Brother? Was it John?” Virgil pats his pockets— where did he put his cellphone? He remembers putting it on silent, and… oh, it’s there on the coffee table. 

"Yes, he said he would inform you that I was coming." 

Oh. There it is, the first message that pops up. Sent almost half an hour ago.

NYPD coming to talk to you. J
 
"Sorry, I didn't see the message," Virgil apologies. Hannah gives him a polite smile.

"It's all right. I understand that your family has been under a lot of stress." 

"That's an understatement," Virgil replies, with what he hopes is a friendly chuckle. "So, who do you need to talk to? Me, or…?" 

"Both of you, if possible," Hannah says. Out of the corner of his eye, Virgil can see Scott lifting his cool-pack to peer up at her. "Ideally, I'd like to take an official statement from both of you, although I understand that might not be possible until Mr Tracy is discharged. Anything you could tell me about that day would help the investigation."

"Investigation?" Scott asks. He at Virgil, then back at Hannah. "Uh… do I need a lawyer?" 

"No," Virgil says, stomach sinking again. So Scott still doesn't remember. "Someone assaulted you. That's why you're here."

"Assault?" Scott sits ramrod-straight, clearly alarmed. The cold-pack falls to his lap. “Wait, when?" 

"Three days ago, outside Tracy Industries," Hannah supplies. 

"Tracy Industries…?" Scott mutters, trailing off.  

"The board meeting," Virgil adds. "He hit you from behind when you were going to the board meeting. That's why you have a head— hey, don't touch it!" Virgil grabs Scott's wrist, snatching his questing fingers away from the swollen lump at the back of his head.

"Ow…" Scott complains. He glares at Virgil reproachfully, yanking his wrist away.

"You. Have. A. Broken. Skull." Virgil tells him, through gritted teeth, before forcing himself to take a deep breath. Calm down. Throttling Scott might be very tempting right now, but think of the bigger picture… 

"Okay, I think I have my answer," Hannah murmurs. She looks at Virgil. "In that case, can I take a statement from you? Like I said, anything would help. It's a high-profile case and we want to cover every possible angle."

"Sure," Virgil replies. He pauses. It feels kind of wrong to sit in front of Scott and discuss him like he's not there. "Uh… do you want to do it here, or somewhere else? We can step out into the hall or something." 

"Whatever would make you feel most comfortable." 

"Okay, then let's go to the hall." At least that way Scott can't leave without their knowledge– he might not have tried in the last couple days, but Virgil's nursed his brother too many times to drop his guard– and there's only so much trouble even Scott can get up to in a hospital room. "Scott, don't do anything while we're gone, okay? I'll be right outside, so if you need anything, just call me. And seriously, no more touching the broken skull." 

Scott rolls his eyes.

"Yes, mom," he mutters, before the door closes behind Virgil. 

The hallway is even more quiet than Scott’s room, distant echoes of doors opening and hurried footsteps the only real sign that the floor is occupied by anybody else.

"Let's sit here," Hannah suggests, pointing at a couple of comfortable-looking chairs in an alcove a few metres away. It’s not as private, as Virgil would like, but it’ll do— he’s loathe to stray too far from Scott’s room. Once settled, she digs in her briefcase, drawing out a tablet which she sets on the tiny side-table between them. “It’ll be faster if we make a video statement. Is that okay?”

“Sure,” Virgil says, quietly wishing he’d been able to gel his hair properly this morning. His hair just doesn’t set right unless he uses a hairdryer, and he hadn’t wanted to wake Scott after he’d had such a hard time sleeping the night before. And when Scott was finally up and awake, his headache had been back with a vengeance, and… well. Virgil’s hair had just kind of slipped his mind.

Hannah flicks open her video-capture app, starting a new recording, before opening a mini-map.

“So, let’s start with a general timeline of events. Mr Tracy landed at Teterboro Airport in his private plane at ten twenty-three on Tuesday morning. He was picked up by a hired driver at ten forty. He arrived at Tracy Industries at eleven forty-five and was attacked at eleven forty-seven. Now, your security specialist said that you spoke to Mr Tracy before his departure from your home in the Pacific. Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“What did you talk about?”

“Uh… mostly just normal stuff. We complained about being tired, he asked me about my art projects, we discussed some of the day’s rescues. That kind of thing.”

Hannah nods. Her follow-up questions all revolve around the timeline she mentioned, confirming the details she’d talked about while also probing for any additional details Virgil can think of. Then the questions focus on Scott and his work as both the commander of International Rescue and the CEO and owner of Tracy Industries.

“Does the name ‘Grafton Construction’ mean anything to you?” Hannah asks. 

“Uh…” Virgil tries to think. Did the reports mention them? “I’m not sure. I don’t really handle the business stuff. I was looking through some reports earlier, but it kinda went over my head. Sorry.”

“Mr Tracy’s secretary said that he had an informal meeting scheduled with Grafton Construction after the board meeting. Do you know anything about that?”

“Scott didn’t mention anything. But he doesn’t usually tell me much about the business side of things. Tracy Industries is kind of a lot to deal with, and we’re all pretty busy.”

“But you’re employed by Tracy Industries,” Hannah’s brow creases. “Your name is in the HR list.”

“Yeah, I do a little R & D for Tracy Pharmaceuticals and Home. But I don’t have anything to do with the upper management stuff, like Scott does,” Virgil says. “I mean, sometimes I submit designs for new products, but mostly they just send me things to test. It’s usually stuff like solar-powered cellphone chargers or camouflaging band-aids. I think the most recent one was a set of automated workshop tools. I don’t get involved with the actual business-y stuff.”

“Do your other brothers have a similar relationship with Tracy Industries?”

“I think Gordon does, yeah— he has more time to spare than I do, though. He designs scuba equipment for Tracy Aquanautics, and he does a whole lot of research on undersea hydroponics when he's not working on his Master's. And John… well, he’s dealing with a lot of the business stuff now, but before the attack he mostly concentrated on his academic career— writing textbooks and academic articles. I think he mentioned planning some research for Tracy Aerospace, but his responsibilities on Thunderbird Five took up most of his time. And Alan is a kid, so he doesn’t have anything to do with the business. I think Scott’s planning to give him an internship or something in Aerospace when he’s a bit older, though.”

Hannah nods. 

“I see. Well, I think that’ll be enough for now. Let’s leave it here.” She swipes the recording app off, then calls up a confirmation form. “Please sign here to confirm that everything you’ve told me is true to the best of your knowledge.”

“Sure.” Virgil does so, a hurried squiggle.

“Thank you,” Hannah gives him another polite smile.  “I appreciate your time. I know this must be really hard for you. My team and I are doing everything in our power to make sure your brother’s attacker faces justice.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Virgil replies.

“I hope your brother recovers soon,” Hannah says. “I’d really appreciate it if you could call me when you think he can handle making a statement.”

“Will do. Thank you, detective.”

After waving Hannah off, Virgil takes a moment to stretch before checking his cellphone again. There’s one new message. 

Rain check on tour tonight. Tell G & A sorry. J

Virgil sighs.

This is going to be a long evening.

Chapter Text

“The Woolworth building’s neo-Gothic features can perhaps be seen most clearly out here, on the balconies. The ironwork surrounding us was inspired by traditional European techniques…” the tour guide explains, most of his words floating in one of Gordon’s ears and straight back out of the other. He does his best to nod along, though, because standing around in the cold explaining stuff to tourists is probably a pretty thankless job and it always pays to at least try to pay attention to this kind of stuff. 

The tour guide gestures at something above them— arches? He said something about arches, right?— and Gordon cranes his head to get a better look at… whatever it is he’s supposed to be seeing. The other tourists in their group gasp and ‘aahhh’ softly at the… uh… arches? They don’t look that cool, to be honest. Was the tour guide talking about something else?

Despite the fact Gordon has no idea what he’s supposed to be seeing, going on an architectural tour was a pretty great idea. Not because Gordon has any interest in architecture— that’s Virgil’s thing— and not because he cares much about history —unless it involves preserving nature— and not because of the view either. Except… well. It’s kind of because of the view. 

The skyline of New York City sparkles beautifully, but it’s nowhere near as beautiful as Penny. Her face is flushed from the chill in the air, her soft hair hidden under a fashionable beret, and she’s smiling at the skyscrapers surrounding them: the iconic World Trade Center complex just a couple blocks east, New York City Hall directly west, and Tracy Tower glittering on Wall Street, about a half-mile south. Gordon can’t help but smile too. 

At least, he can’t help but smile until someone jabs him hard in the ribs. 

“Ow!”

“Stop staring!” Alan whispers. “You’re being creepy!”

“I’m not being creepy!” Gordon hisses. “You’re being creepy!” 

“You’re bein' h’a little bit creepy, sir,” Parker adds, at his normal volume. Penny blinks, turning away from the tour guide with another one of her pretty smiles. Sherbet is asleep in her arms, wrapped carefully in her cashmere scarf.

“Hm? What’s a little bit creepy, Parker?” Penny asks, tilting her head slightly. 

“Gargoyles!” Gordon interjects, before Parker can speak. “The, uh… the gargoyles. They’re pretty creepy, huh?”

Penny glances around, her brow furrowing in confusion. 

“Gargoyles?” she asks. “Where? I can’t see any…” 

“We were, uh… talking generally!” Alan adds, leaping in to cover for Gordon. Okay, Alan is officially his favourite brother now.

“Well, I suppose you’re right,” Penelope nods. “Yes, I can quite see why you’d think them creepy. Interestingly, I once heard that they were originally invented to ward away evil spirits from holy places.”

“So that’s h’why you can’t go h’into churches, Mister Gordon,” Parker says, dryly. 

“Shut up!” Gordon hisses, his face burning.

“Oh, dear, Parker, that really isn’t very nice,” Penny lets out a short giggle.

“It’s not nice, but I’m pretty sure it’s true,” Virgil’s voice booms from somewhere behind Gordon. A large hand lands on Gordon’s shoulder, patting sympathetically before he comes into view. He looks tired, but less so than yesterday. His hair is a floppy mess, but he’s clean-shaven now and the circles under his eyes are much lighter than they were yesterday. “Sorry I’m late. It took a while to get my hands on enough math books to keep Scott occupied. I told Grandma to get him calculating Pi digits if he finishes them before I get back.”

“Pi? Scott can do math?” Alan asks, immediately perking up. 

“Well, duh!” Gordon elbows him back. “Of course Scott can do math. If Scott ever stops doing math, I’m pretty sure the world’s gonna end.”

He’s doing his best to act blasé, but to be honest, there had been a little bit of Gordon that had been terrified that Scott would keep on being that lost, confused, helpless version of himself they’d seen yesterday. And not that he’d ever admit it out loud, but he might have had a couple nightmares about Scott only being physically there. It’s not that being disabled is a bad thing— Gordon knows that it’s not. John’s autistic and he’s just fine— heck, maybe he’s better than most normal people. And Gordon would have been just fine even if his spine hadn’t healed up and the paralysis had remained-- his life would be different, sure, but not bad. But the idea of Scott— strong, capable, ever-present Scott— needing permanent care… 

Well, that’s different. 

Obviously Gordon would be the first person to leap up and offer to help care for him— okay, well, maybe he’d be the third, because Grandma and Virgil have first dibs on anything involving medical care. But he’d do whatever Scott needed, and he’d do it gladly, because Scott has always been there for him. Even if his smothering during (and after) Gordon’s spinal recovery had been unbearable, Scott been there just as much as the others, even letting Gordon use him as a verbal punchbag when the frustration and the anger got too much to bear. 

So, whatever Scott needed help with? Dressing, eating, bathing, anything at all? Gordon would do it. He wouldn’t hesitate, no matter how small or how big or how time-consuming it was. And he’d do it with a smile and a joke and he’d return Scott’s earlier support tenfold. A hundredfold. Whatever it took.

But if Scott’s still a total math nerd… maybe Gordon doesn’t need to worry about any of that stuff. Like, yesterday Scott didn’t even know who they were— it was subtle, but Gordon’s sure of it. He hadn’t referred to anybody by name until Grandma or Virgil said it first, and he hadn’t known John’s name either.  If he can do math today— hard math, if Virgil’s words are anything to go by— then maybe he’ll be okay after all. Maybe Virgil is right, and he just needs time.

“How is Scott, anyway?” Penny asks. “Did he like the gift?” 

“He hasn’t tried any of it yet, but he was delighted. Especially when he saw the cookies.” 

“I thought he would be,” Penny smiles, the prettiest smile in the world. “Do let me know when he’s ready for visitors, hm?”

“Sure thing,” Virgil agrees. He cocks his head at the tour guide, who’s still excitedly explaining the virtues of this building’s… uhh… something or other. Windows, maybe? He said something about glass, right? “Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got a tour to enjoy.”

Whether Virgil means the actual tour or the tour guide, Gordon’s not sure. He’s leaning toward the latter, though— he can’t quite wrap his head around anybody genuinely getting excited over the use of terracotta in skyscrapers and the guide certainly looks like Virgil’s type, one of those wiry academic types, all smiley and excitable and passionate about… whatever he’s rambling about now.  

“Wait,” Alan pipes up, just as Virgil starts toward the rest of their group. “Wasn’t John supposed to come here with you?”

“About that…” Virgil looks a little uncomfortable, shifting his weight. “John can’t make it. He’s still stuck at the office. Everybody there is worried about Scott, and there’s a ton of business stuff he’s gotta take care of. He said he was really, really sorry, though.”

Gordon’s pretty sure the words ‘I’m really, really sorry’ have never left John’s mouth once in his twenty-three years on this planet. He doesn’t do modifiers, always just stating things in the plainest terms: ‘we have a situation’ being his go-to understatement. He probably just asked Virgil to convey an apology for him. That would be more his style.

“Okay…” Alan’s shoulders slump and he looks disappointed.

“He’ll come back to the hotel to sleep tonight,” Virgil continues, in his very best soothing big brother voice. “And he’s gonna have breakfast and dinner with us tomorrow. I made him promise.”

Alan’s eyes light up at Virgil's words: he knows the importance of a promise from John. Their older brother might act cold and distant, but he cares deeply about his family. He’s just not good at showing it. But one thing he is good at is keeping promises. 

How Virgil manages to make John promise stuff, Gordon has no idea. He kinda wishes he did know— trying to get John to help him with pranks is hard, mostly because John has the most bizarre sense of humour Gordon’s ever had the misfortune of witnessing and he can never tell what John’s going to find funny enough to help with. 

Gordon can’t remember the last time John broke a promise— he always keeps them, though sometimes only by abusing the exact wording of whatever he’d promised to do. Like that time he promised not to tell Scott that it was Gordon who snuck laxatives into his pathetically-hidden candy stash, by telling Virgil and Grandma about Gordon's plot roughly three minutes after they’d revoked Scott’s medical clearances over his upset stomach. (Gordon had gotten a hell of a tongue-lashing for that, and he’d been stuck on bathroom cleaning duty for, like, three solid months. All deserved, he’ll admit that. But the punishments had been worth it— Scott had looked much better-rested by the time he’d been cleared for flying again. Like his brother had actually taken care of himself for once.)

“Do you want to join us, Penelope?” Alan asks. He glances at Gordon, a silent message he knows all too well: you owe me for this, bro. 

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly intrude…” Penny replies, and Virgil interjects, shooting Gordon the same silent look.

“You wouldn’t be intruding, we love hanging out with you,” Virgil tells her. “You’re welcome to join us for as long as you’re in New York. Uh… how long is that, exactly?”

“I'm here for two weeks,” Penny replies. “Well, if you’re sure it wouldn’t be a bother—“

“It wouldn’t!” Gordon says, his voice betraying him by cracking with excitement. 

“—then I suppose I could spend my holiday here with you boys. Would you mind terribly if we visited the Metropolitan Museum of Art at some point? I’ve been dying to take a look at their fashion collections for quite some time, but I only get to visit when I’m attending the Met Gala.”

“Sure! We love fashion, don’t we, Virgil?” Gordon agrees, tugging frantically at Virgil's sleeve. The not-so-secret message: back me up on this, bro, I'm begging you.

“Uh… sure,” Virgil says, yanking his arm out of Gordon's reach. Behind him, the tour group starts moving toward the door. “I wanted to go to the Metropolitan, too. How about we do that tomorrow?” 

“A capital idea!” Penny beams, before noticing the rest of the tour filing back inside. “Oh— look, we’re falling behind. Parker, would you be a dear and hold the door for me? I can’t open it myself with Sherbet asleep like this.”

“Of course, milady,” Parker gives her a small bow and does just that. 

“I’ll take Sherbet, if you want!” Gordon offers, half-drunk with glee. A whole day, hanging out with Penny! He doesn’t know what he did to deserve this, but God, he hopes the universe keeps up with this streak of good luck.

“It’s quite all right,” Penny replies, with another of her angelic smiles. “But I do appreciate the offer. You really are good to me, aren’t you?”

Gordon nods, unable to form any meaningful words. She noticed! Penny noticed!

As Penny turns to re-enter the Woolworth building’s interior, Gordon gets another elbow in the ribs. 

“Ow!”

“I told you!” Alan hisses. “Stop staring! You’re being creepy!”

“He has a point, Gordy,” Virgil adds, pushing both of them through the door. “Thank you, Parker.”

"Right you h'are, Mister Virgil."

Chapter Text

Shaving is hard. 

The electric razor gently buzzes against Scott’s skin. It’s much more comfortable than the manual razor Virgil had used on him yesterday and the days before, but the problem still remains: his hands just don’t quite do as he wants. He’s dropped the razor no fewer than three times in the fifteen minutes he’s spent shaving, and he’s pretty sure the safety blades are the only reason his ears and lips are still attached to his head.

He’s just about managed it, though. He switches the razor off, rinsing the hair and foam off the blades before setting it on the counter. He grabs a washcloth, wets it, and wipes the remaining gunk off his face before giving his reflection a critical eye. 

The man in the mirror doesn’t look good. His face is bruised with blue-purple rings around his eyes that have started fading a horrible green-yellow on the outer edges. There’s a little toothpaste foam still gathered at the corner of his mouth, so he wipes it away. His nose is taped into place— Grandma said not to touch it or get it wet, and he hasn’t. His skin and hair are both greasy, because between the tape and his unsteady hands, he can’t wash his face or hair properly. Grandma did promise that Virgil would come back tonight to help him with that, which is good— asking the nurses for help gives him a bad feeling in his stomach, and Grandma won’t let Scott take a shower without someone she deems ‘strong enough’ waiting in the main room, which apparently Virgil is. And that’s to say nothing of all the other rules she has: no screens when they’re eating, strictly scheduled nap-time, and worst of all… candy rationing.

Scott scowls at his reflected face. All these rules are enough to drive a guy mad. There’s no doubt that Grandma means well, and the attention is nice— who wouldn’t like getting fed apple pie and constantly told how smart and handsome they are? But as sweet as Grandma is, getting smothered like this is starting to wear on his nerves. The sooner he gets discharged, the better. 

He picks up the clean clothes folded on the toilet lid, changing his hospital-issued pyjamas for a soft, wide-neck running shirt and grey sweatpants— it’s not hard, not if he’s careful to sit down whenever he has to make sudden movements. The pyjamas go into the laundry basket, and Scott goes out into the main room. 

The curtains have all been drawn back, bathing the suite in bright, greyish light. Grandma is sitting at the table, exactly where she was when Scott decided to get ready for the day. The breakfast things have been cleared away, even Scott’s spilled coffee. The biggest difference of all, though, is probably the woman sitting next to her.

“Hello, Scott. Do you remember me?” the woman asks. She’s in her forties or fifties, with kind brown eyes and a carefully-draped black hijab tucked into the collar of her lab coat. Her voice is accented slightly— the kind of soft, rounded syllables that he associates with the South. There’s a cup of what looks like green tea in front of her, steaming gently.

“Of course. Hello, Doctor Anwar,” Scott greets her politely, smiling  as he approaches.

“Wonderful,” Doctor Anwar returns his smile, gesturing for him to sit down in the chair opposite her. Once he does, she continues talking. “You seem better today. Your grandmother tells me that you ate everything the nurses gave you.”

“Well, it was delicious,” Scott replies. It had been— crisp, golden croissants served with tiny ramekins of butter and jam, as well as a side bowl of fruit. Grapes and berries and cut-up peaches and pears, all sweet and tender and unbearably juicy. And the coffee had been fantastic, smooth and just a little bitter. It’s a shame so much of it had ended up puddled on the floor.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Doctor Anwar says. “Now, I’m here to conduct a short assessment with you. It’s the same assessment we did yesterday— do you remember?”

“Yes,” Scott says. Doctor Anwar looks like she’s expecting a longer answer, so he continues. “You said it’s called the Westmead scale. It’s for head injury patients.”

“Very good,” Doctor Anwar nods, then opens her tablet. “I am going to ask you some questions. Your answers will give me information about your orientation and memory of recent events. This information will help me give you the best care possible in your recovery. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

Doctor Anwar nods, then glances at Grandma. 

“Mrs Tracy, if you wouldn’t mind…?”

“Sure,” Grandma replies, shooting Anwar a bright smile. She reaches over, squeezes Scott’s hands. “Hey, kiddo. I’m going to go down to the gift shop, stretch my legs a little. I’ll be back in fifteen. You want anything while I’m gone?”

“Uh… maybe some chocolate?” Scott asks, hopefully. “Something with caramel, if they have it.”

“I’ll see what I can get for you,” Grandma tells him, giving his cheek a little pinch before grabbing her jacket from the hook near the door. The door closes almost silently behind her, and Doctor Anwar gives Scott another polite smile.

“Let’s begin,” she says. “Can you tell me your full name?”

“Scott Carpenter Tracy.” That’s what Grandma keeps telling him. It’s the name on the cards in his wallet, too.  

“Good. Where are we right now?”

“At a hospital.” Scott says, reciting the name someone told him. He doesn’t remember who told him which hospital this is, but someone did. 

“Why are you here?”

“Someone assaulted me. Hit me in the head with a brick.” That’s what Virgil said on Thursday. What day is it now? Friday? No, Saturday, right?

“What month is it?”

“March.” Doctor Anwar told him that a couple days ago. Maybe that was Thursday, too. Or Wednesday.

“And what year is it?”

‘Twenty sixty-one.” Again, Doctor Anwar told Scott that a few days before. Now she nods approvingly, quickly tapping on her tablet.

“Yesterday I showed you three images,” Doctor Anwar contines. “What were they?”

Scott thinks back. They had been simple, black-and-white holograms. Doctor Anwar had made him repeat them a couple times, since he hadn’t been able to remember the cards from the day before. He’s not entirely convinced she did show any cards the day before. 

“Coffee cup, pair of scissors, and a toothbrush.”

Doctor Anwar taps rapidly at her tablet for a moment.

“A perfect score,” she says, meeting his gaze with a warm smile. “Well done, Scott.”

Doctor Anwar flicks her wrist, and three black-and-white holograms appear above her tablet. A keyring with two keys, the same coffee cup as before, and a flower— maybe some kind of sunflower? It’s a little hard to tell. 

“Tomorrow I’ll come back here and ask you the same questions as I did today. But this time, I want you to remember these three cards here. What are they, Scott?”

“Keyring, coffee cup and a flower.”

Easy. He can remember that. 

“Good,” Doctor Anwar looks pleased. “That’s the end of our assessment today. By the way, how are you feeling? Yesterday you said you still had a headache.”

“It’s better,” Scott tells her. His head still hurts, but the sensation is less distracting than it had been. “I feel less sick, too. Less dizzy.”

“That’s great to hear. I did notice that you seemed a lot steadier on your feet today.” Doctor Anwar makes another note on her tablet, even though she said the assessment was over, and then she sighs. “Oh, dear. I left my watch in my office. Do you have a watch, Scott?”

Scott glances down at the plain band around his wrist. He does have a watch, but he’s not wearing it right now. He’d left it… where did he leave it? 

“It’s on the bedside cabinet,” he says. 

“Can you get it for me, please?”

“Sure.”

Scott rises to his feet, carefully stepping around his chair. The bed is ten paces away, the cabinet another three. His feet are heavy, but he doesn’t stumble. The bedside cabinet is kinda messy— there’s a reading tablet, a couple half-empty water bottles, some scattered mint candies, and a small pile of paper get-well cards, among other things. His wristwatch is lying next to the card pile.  He carefully scoops up the watch— a silver-and-black Patek Philippe on a matching band— and brings it back to the table.  

“Here,” he says, holding it out for Doctor Anwar. 

Doctor Anwar picks up the watch with cool, careful fingers, taking a moment to inspect it before placing it back into Scott’s hand.

“Thank you, you can put it on now,” she says. “It’s a lovely watch. Where did you get it?”

Scott looks at it. It looks brand-new, all polished and shiny. The black isn’t quite black, now he’s examining it closely. It’s a dark, metallic blue, a little deeper than navy. The numbers on the clock are silver against that deep blue, the clock hands a sharp shock of bright red. A pleasing combination, though the blue could stand to be a little brighter. The time reads eight forty-one.

“I don’t know,” he admits, slipping it onto his wrist. It fits snugly next to the heart monitor band. “I guess I bought it somewhere.”

“I see. Thank you for letting me look at it,” Doctor Anwar says. She takes a sip of tea, then cocks her head. “By the way, do you remember the images I showed you? What were they?”

“A keyring, a coffee cup, and some kind of flower, right?”

“That’s right.” Doctor Anwar smiles again. “If you get full marks in this assessment for just one day more, you might be able to go home in time for your birthday. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

Birthday. That means… well, what does it mean?  

Cake. Guilt. Cards. Gifts, too, probably. Hopefully he’ll get more math books— differential equations have been pretty fun so far. When Doctor Anwar is gone, he’ll probably take another crack at that textbook.

“Remind me… how old are you going to be, Scott?” Doctor Anwar asks. “We’d like to give you a card, since you’ve been such a wonderful patient.”

“Um…” Scott thinks for a moment, but he doesn’t remember. 

“Ah. Silly me. I remember, now. Twenty-nine. You’ll be twenty-nine years old,” Doctor Anwar says. “Your grandmother said your birthday was on April… hm… April what?”

Doctor Anwar looks at Scott, clearly expecting an answer. 

“Uh… first?” Scott asks. “April first?” 

It’s the first date that comes to mind. April fool’s.

“Not quite,” Doctor Anwar says, though her voice is as kind and honeyed as ever. “April fourth. That’s a little over a week away, now.”

That’s a pretty dumb thing to forget. Scott can’t help but chuckle. Concussion. That’s what Grandma and Virgil said. It’s the concussion.

“I’ll forget my own head next,” he jokes. 

“There’s no need to worry about that,” Doctor Anwar replies, dryly. “It’s screwed on quite tightly, I can assure you.”

It’s hard to tell if she’s joking, but Doctor Anwar doesn’t give him much time to consider it before asking another question. 

“You know, earlier today I was thinking about birthdays and time passing, and all those things we miss from our childhood. I was an only child, so my childhood was rather quiet. But you have brothers, don’t you? Why don’t you tell me about them?”

“Um…” Scott blinks. “Uh… well, I have five. There’s Virgil, Gordon, Allie and John.”

“That’s four, Scott,” Doctor Anwar says, mildly. 

“Oh…” Scott mumbles, and then he remembers. “Uh, I meant to say four. Grandma always talks about having five grandsons, so I got a little mixed up.”

“Perfectly understandable,” Doctor Anwar nods. “Who’s the oldest?”

“Um…” Scott pauses. Virgil is the caring one, like Grandma, but John seems to be in charge. “John, then Virgil. Gordon after that. And Allie is the youngest.”

“And where do you fit in there?” 

“I…” Scott trails off. He’s not sure, Virgil and John look pretty similar in age to him, except… except they don’t have any silver hairs. “They’re all younger than me.”

“I suppose it must have been lively, having so many little brothers. Your grandmother said you grew up on a farm. Is that right?”

If Grandma said it, then yes, he did. Scott nods.

“That must have been a lot of fun, lots of running around outdoors.”

It must have been. Scott nods again, opening his mouth mostly because Doctor Anwar is looking at him like she wants an answer: “yeah, I guess it was.”

“And speaking of the outdoors…” Doctor Anwar looks thoughtful now, tapping one finger against her chin. “My younger cousin is quite the outdoorsman. He’s in middle school now, and loves going to this nature group. I think it’s called the Rescue Scouts. He’s always saying this poem about them… A rescue scout is calm...” Doctor Anwar trails off, looking at Scott expectantly. “I don’t remember the rest, do you know it?”

Honestly, Scott’s not sure. But he’ll give it a try, anyway.

“A rescue scout is calm…” he mutters, and then inspiration strikes. “A rescue scout is brave.” 

Doctor Anwar nods encouragingly, so he tries to think of a couple more lines. 

“Never scared, always prepared…” 

“To what?” Doctor Anwar asks. 

“To help, to guide, to save,” Scott finishes. 

“You know, I think that’s it,” Doctor Anwar says. “Were you ever a rescue scout, Scott?” 

“Uh… no, I don’t think so.”

“I see,” Doctor Anwar glances down at her tablet, and the door swings open. 

“How are you doing?” Grandma asks. She’s carrying a small paper bag. 

“We’re fine, thank you,” Doctor Anwar replies. “Actually, we’re just about done.”

“I hope Scott wasn’t too much trouble,” Grandma says, with a wink. She reaches in the bag, pulling out a candy bar. She pushes it into Scott’s hands, ruffles his still-damp hair. “Here you go, dear. Caramel, just like you asked.”

“Thank you, Grandma.”

Doctor Anwar drains the last of the tea in her cup, then stands.

“I suppose I’d better let you get back to it,” she says. “Thank you for speaking with me, Scott. It was very nice to talk to you. Now, before I go, what do you need to remember for tomorrow?”

“The images?” Scott asks. “Uh… keyring, coffee cup and flower.”

“Excellent,” Doctor Anwar smiles again. “I’ll come back and see you tomorrow, at the same time. Mrs Tracy, if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like a quick word…”

“Sure,” Grandma agrees, and she leans over to whisper loudly in Scott’s ear. “Don’t eat all the chocolate at once!”

“I won’t,” Scott lies,  and then to Doctor Anwar: “See you later. It was nice to talk to you too.”

Then they’re gone, leaving Scott all alone with his candy. The table isn’t all that comfortable, so he heads over to the couch and settles down, reaching for his tablet— Virgil loaded several terabytes of math textbooks on it the other day. He peels open the candy wrapper, pops a chunk into his mouth as he browses the available titles. The chocolate melts slowly in his mouth. It’s sweet and creamy, the caramel inside a burst of sticky, nigh-overwhelming sugar. Delicious. 

What to work on today? Non-linear differentials might be fun, a nice progression from yesterday. Or he could break into a new kind of math altogether and start on that topology series… None of the options in front of him feel particularly exciting, though.

Truth be told, Scott doesn't particularly want to work on math at all.

It's fun, obviously, but staying cooped up in this room is slowly but surely driving him crazy. There's only so much resting and relaxing a man can do. He’s got all day to kill— at least a week and a bit if Doctor Anwar is right, and she probably is since she’s a doctor and all.

Maybe they have a gym or something around here- if he asks nicely enough, they're sure to let him use it, right? Or at least let him take a walk around the building. Something. Anything.

Scott groans, flicking through the titles again, and then inspiration strikes.

He can do both. Enjoy a little math and figure out how to stop himself going crazy in this room.

Game plan: start with the non-linear differential equations, then move onto topology for a change of pace. Have lunch. Go down for a Grandma-mandated nap. Eat candy ration. Investigate possible gym use, which will hopefully lead to actual gym use. Have dinner. Greet Virgil, say goodbye to Grandma. Finally take a shower. Sleep... or try, anyway. It's been kind of hard lately.

Scott nods to himself. It's as good as he's going to get, at least for now.

He leans back on the couch, resting his ankles on the armrest, and opens the first textbook. 

Chapter Text

The cafeteria is packed. Today’s menu offers a choice between Ukrainian borscht, accompanied by garlicky pampushky rolls and a cucumber-sauerkraut salad, or Korean beef bulgogi with kimchi, dressed vegetables, and five-grain rice. 

“What would you like?” the woman at the counter asks. 

“Uh… I’ll have the borscht,” John says, fighting the urge to yawn.

He’s exhausted. So many meetings, so many people to reassure, so many departments to oversee, and so little time. And then, when he gets back to the hotel, he has two little brothers to soothe, and either an older brother or a grandmother to take care of— both being so invested in caring for Scott that they neglect their own wellbeing. When he finally does get time to himself, he can't sleep- his sleep schedule on Five is too different.

The woman nods, quickly dishes out a generous bowl and sets it on a tray with a little pot of sour cream and some cutlery rolled inside a napkin. 

“Bread and salad?” she asks.

“Both, please.”

The woman nods, adds the extra dishes to his tray, and holds her hand out. 

“I.D.?” 

The lunches are free to Tracy Industries employees— two of Dad’s fundamental beliefs were that people who have should share their fortune with people who do not, and that happy employees are productive and loyal employees. John holds out his lanyard for her to scan— HR had issued his new card very quickly once the family lawyer had sent through the power of attorney documents. Her eyebrows shoot up when she sees his name and job title: John G. Tracy. Aeronautic Research Advisor / Acting CEO 

“Enjoy your meal, sir,” she smiles.

John nods, taking his card back. Then he takes his food and sits down in the closest available seat. There are four other people at this table already: three women and a man, all dressed in colourful business casual. They’re too embroiled in their own conversation to pay him any mind, and that’s just how John likes it. Despite the noise around them, the employees are loud enough that he can follow their conversation without even trying.

“—and I swear to God, I could have screamed. Like, why couldn’t that have been an e-mail?” a woman in a blue blouse gestures in frustration before picking up her fork, spearing a piece of kimchi. John scoops up some beetroot, pops it in his mouth. Earthy, with just a hint of vinegar from the broth. Delicious. 

“E-mails aren’t personal enough,” another woman answers. This one is wearing red, her blonde hair braided into an intricate updo. “At least it’s not a phone call, right?”

The bread is light and fluffy, almost melting on his tongue with its salty, garlic glaze. The salad is crisp and refreshing, a perfect counterpoint to the richness of the other dishes.

“I guess,” says Blue Blouse. She groans. “I hate when the management starts getting all tetchy like that. They only start pulling this shit when the big guy is visiting.”

“That’s true,” the last woman adds. She’s wearing a yellow sweater-dress, thick-rimmed spectacles perched on her nose. “But at least the big guy is dreamy enough to make up for the extra hassle. I mean, damn, that’s what they call a Hollywood smile. What a hottie…” 

“Too bad we didn’t get to see him this year,” Blue Blouse sighs. “Fuck that brick dude, honestly. Dashing my dreams of becoming rich-ass Mrs. Tracy...”

John stares down at his soup. He had known, of course, that Scott isn’t really regarded as a person by people who don’t know him. That’s how the whole ‘celebrity’ thing works. He just hadn’t really expected to hear it here at Tracy Industries. 

Celebrity Scott is a handsome, cocky character who lives an impossibly dreamy lifestyle and is mostly known for donating a lot of money to charity and playing hero in his vast amounts of free time. That’s all the general public really thinks about him, and to a certain extent, that’s all they need to think. They don’t have any connection to Real Scott, the perpetually-exhausted brother-slash-parent who despairs at the fact there are only twenty-four hours in a day, who has set himself and his brothers the impossible task of helping every other person on the planet and beyond, and who endlessly chastises himself— and only himself— for failing to meet the superhuman expectations he’s placed on his shoulders. 

The public don’t know the Scott who barely has the time and energy to exchange occasional e-mails with anybody outside of work or his extended family, let alone maintain a social or romantic life. He was supposed to have a high school reunion back in Kansas last August— had bought a suit and everything— but a sudden tsunami alert had been issued for the Philippines, a really bad one, and International Rescue been needed to help evacuate some remote parts of the Visayas before the waves hit. By the time they were done, the reunion party had been over for hours. The public don’t know the Scott who soothes and comforts his brothers after a bad rescue— like the train derailment in England a few weeks ago— then cries by himself when he thinks he’s out of earshot of everybody else. The public don’t know how much he is— how much he was, before Samuel White broke him.

John’s stomach suddenly feels very heavy.

“Hey, Scooter could totally be gay,” the man protests. “He hasn’t said publicly either way.”

“That’s just wishful thinking, Bill,” says Updo. “You know he flirts with all the girls when he’s here. If he liked the fellas, you’d be the first to know.”

Scooter. Scott’s old GDF callsign, from the nineteen months he’d been actively enlisted. Not that he’d done anything more than basic training and flying cargo across continents, but he’d loved it. For them to use that nickname… well, at least it means he’s well-liked. 

“I hope he’s okay,” Spectacles pushes some beef around her plate. “I don’t want another new CEO. It sucked bad enough when the old guy got killed. He was so nice— they both were.”

John swallows another mouthful of salad, not tasting it at all. He’s almost used to people talking about Dad in the past tense, but Scott…

Blue Blouse makes a thoughtful sound. 

“Well, I don’t think we have to worry about that,” she says. “They said one of Scooter’s brothers is in charge for now. The astronaut guy. He does all the, like, call centre stuff for International Rescue.”

That’s an interesting way to describe John’s space monitor duties aboard Thunderbird Five.

“Oh, you mean Jim?” the man says, before frowning. “Wait, no… that’s not right. Uh… Joe?”

“John,” John tells them. “His name is John.”

“That’s right, it was John!” Spectacles snaps her fingers. “Thanks, uh… sorry, what’s your name?”

“John,” John offers her a tight smile before quickly standing and picking up his tray. He’s lost his appetite. 

“Uh…” Spectacles blinks, and John can see the cogs turning in her head. As he walks away, he hears a gasp: “guys, I think that was him!”

John doesn’t look back, just heads to the counter near the door, where he tosses his leftovers in the food waste bins and stacks his crockery in the correct pile. Then he slips through the crowd thronging on this floor, to the elevator. He steps inside— this car is mercifully empty— and twists his earpiece so the mic activates again. 

“EOS, I need an express elevator to the C-suite,” he mutters. 

“Here you go,” EOS replies, already zooming him right up to the top floor without stopping. “I must warn you, though… you have a visitor.”

John had really been hoping for a few minutes to himself before the next series of meetings.

“Who?”

“Mister Warren Grafton, of Grafton Construction. Emma is trying to make him leave, but he demands to speak to you.”

The name rings a bell, though John’s not entirely sure where he’s heard the name before. Wasn’t that one of the meetings Scott had scheduled, before his attack?

“I’ll deal with him,” he says. 

“Arriving in five… four... three…” EOS counts.

John closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. He looks at his reflection in the mirrored walls: he looks neat and well-presented, his red hair combed into its usual careful style. He managed to avoid dripping broth on his clothes earlier, so his dark green suit still looks crisp and new. He straightens his back, tugs at the cuffs on his jacket. CEO, he thinks. Channel Scott. Channel Dad. 

“Two… one… arriving now.”

The elevator grinds to a halt and the doors spring open to reveal ivory-coloured walls adorned with black-and-white photos of Tracy Industries’ biggest successes. Emma’s voice immediately echoes in his ears. 

“I’m sorry. As I said earlier, Mr. Tracy only takes visitors by appointment, for his own safety. You can come back and see him next week, I have appointments avail—“

“And as I said earlier, I don’t have time for this!" the man's voice is deep, with a noticable accent- could be Jersey, could be New York. He's not sure. "The monorail is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and I cannot delay this meeting any further. I must see him today.”

John steps out onto plush grey carpet and clears his throat. Emma looks at him, the frown on her lined face melting into an expression of surprise. She’s a middle-aged woman with a smart bob and a blue cardigan, one of Mom’s old schoolfriends. She’s always been eager to make Dad’s—  and now Scott’s— hectic lives a just a little more bearable. Emma is a well-loved bonus auntie of the Tracy clan. If John remembers correctly, Scott always sends her on luxury vacations for her birthday week as a thank-you for all she does.

“John?” she asks, worry creasing her brow. “You’re back from lunch early. Are you all right?”

“I wasn’t very hungry,” John replies, before addressing the man standing over Emma’s desk.  He’s dressed in a smart charcoal suit and a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles. He’s probably in his early forties, grey starting to peek through at his temples. “I couldn’t help but hear your conversation. Were you looking to speak with me?”

“Ah… John Tracy, I presume?” Grafton smiles, holding out his hand. John’s always hated eye contact, so he concentrates on Grafton’s left eyebrow instead. Black with a few grey hairs, and a scar cutting through the arch.

“That’s me,” John confirms, shaking Grafton’s hand. It’s cool and unpleasantly damp, though he has a strong grip. He very carefully does not wipe his hand on his pants when Grafton lets go. “And you are…?”

“Warren Grafton, of Grafton Construction,” Grafton introduces himself. He digs in his pocket, draws out a business card. “Here. We’ve been a partner of Tracy Industries for about two years now, working on the new factory and the solar panel farm down in Texas.”

“I see,” John nods. “I trust the arrangement you had with Scott is going well?”

“Aw, it’s going swimmingly!” Grafton exclaims, slapping John on the shoulder, sending a horrible jolt through John’s lungs. His bones rattle, for God's sake. Earth-based physics suck. John tries very hard to keep his polite, attentive smile firmly on his face as Grafton continues. “It’s going so well that I have a business proposition for you! An offer you can’t refuse!”

“Can’t refuse? Well, that does sound promising. What is it?”

“A monorail!” Grafton beams. 

Monorail? Single-track passenger trains? They’re fine and all, but unless Grafton is somehow teaming up with Tycho Reeves to create Hyperloop II, there’s nothing particularly interesting to say about them. It’s not the sort of project Scott would usually invest in, and he’s pretty sure Dad wouldn’t either. Both of them were more concerned with aviation.

“There are a lot of monorails already,” John says. “What makes this one so special?”

“Oh, I’m so glad you asked that!” Grafton grins. He whips out a tablet, projects an image between them: a world map. A dotted line connects what looks like Maine, USA to Cornwall, UK. Several smaller, multicoloured lines join the original: one starts in what looks like Nova Scotia, Canada, before joining the main line, and two join Europe’s side of the map, from what looks like County Galway, Eire, and Brittany, France. “First, we’re the only monorail crossing the Atlantic ocean! Think about how many planes we’ll be able to ground with this!” 

It’s a bit of a moot point, given that aircraft now typically run on either self-generated solar and wind energy or clean hydromethane fuel, as opposed to the highly polluting fossil-based fuels of last century. But all right, public transport is never a bad thing. And taking a monorail across the oceans might be a fun experience for some people. It might even be cheaper than regular aircraft.

“I see,” John nods. “What else?”

“This monorail is designed to be completely automatic! Just think about how much money we’d make, simply by not having to hire staff. We don't even need robots!”

That surely can’t be safe, can it? A monorail system not controlled by some form of intelligence sounds like an awful idea. Almost as bad as something Langstrom Fischler would cook up. 

John clears his throat. 

“Well, that’s very interesting, but—“

“We calculated that we can fit five hundred people in one ten-carriage train!” Grafton adds. “Even if we lowball ticket prices, we’ll have made back our investment in a matter of days!” 

“That sounds like a very uncomfortable journey,” John says. “Grafton, I’ll need to take a good look at what you’re suggesting and your designs so far. I need to know exactly what I’d be committing to if I were to invest. Can you send your business plans to Emma, here?”

“Of course!”

“Good. Then let’s make an appointment for next month,” John says. “We can discuss this further, then.”

“Next month?” Grafton’s eyes widen. “But… but we need the money now!”

“Well, I’m afraid that Scott usually signs off on any major investments, and he’s currently stuck in hospital with a major head injury,” John snaps, before collecting himself. He plasters on another fake smile. “Unfortunately, my schedule is pretty much jam-packed until then.”

It’s not jam-packed for the whole month, only the next couple days. John’s only likely to be busy until the markets settle down and Tracy Industries adjusts to its interim leader. Frankly, he just doesn’t want to spend however-long talking to Grafton about his poorly-planned monorail. Especially since he was bugging Emma during her lunch hour. She deserves better than that.

“But it’s such a long time!” Grafton protests. 

“I know, and I apologise,” John lies. “I’m afraid it’s the best I can do. Now, I’ll want to see all of your safety measures, security features and failsafes in great detail at our next meeting. Here at Tracy Industries, we never invest in anything without being completely sure of its safety and reliability. Our name is synonymous with excellent quality and integrity. People trust us. I cannot— and will not— ever compromise on that. Especially where people’s lives are concerned. I’m sure you understand that, don’t you?”

“Well, how about a small advance—“ Grafton tries again. 

“Safety first, sir!” John cheerfully interrupts him. “How about the end of April? I could do Friday the twenty-second or twenty-ninth.”

Grafton looks deeply unhappy, but after a moment, he answers. 

“The twenty-second is fine,” he says, sounding a little sullen.

“Great. Then I’ll see you at two-thirty sharp.” John smiles again. Then he leans on the desk, focusing entirely on Emma. “I’m sorry about this. How about you take an extra long lunch now? The finance meeting won’t start for another two hours, and I think you deserve a break.”

Grafton shifts uncomfortably for a few seconds in the corner of John’s eye, before realising that he’s been dismissed. He eventually slinks off toward the elevators. 

“Grafton is gone,” EOS says, gleefully. “I shall make his elevator stop on every single floor on the way down.”

Good, John thinks. Grafton deserves it. 

“Oh, I appreciate it, sweetie,” Emma says. “It’s not really necessary, though.”

“He was giving you an awfully hard time,” John replies. “I need a break, and he was being nice to me. I can’t imagine how you feel.”

“Well, before I worked for your pa, I worked retail for fifteen years. I’m telling you, nothing can phase me,” Emma chuckles, and she points a thumb at herself. “This old broad’s got skin tougher than titanium!” 

John opens his mouth to make a dry joke about studying her titanium skin, but thinks better of it. Nobody finds his jokes particularly funny, and this is a professional environment. He smiles instead. 

“Thank you, Emma, for everything,” he says. “I’m glad we have you.”

“Aww,” Emma coos, reaching forward to pinch John’s cheek just as Grandma does. “I’m glad to have you boys, too. You really are just like Lucille, you know that?”

Everybody says that, but John doesn’t see the resemblance. Dad and Scott look alike, Gordy and Alan look like Mom. Virgil got great-Grandpa Tracy’s black hair. John just… doesn’t really look like anybody. He maybe has some of Mom’s family’s cheekbones, if he squints hard enough. 

“People have said that,” he admits. 

“She’d be so proud of you,” Emma tells him. “All of you. She’d be so, so proud of you and everything you’re doing. You dad would, too.”

John nods, unable to trust himself to speak. Even though Mom and Dad both died a long time ago… the loss is still there. It’s there. No matter how much time has passed, there’s still a hole in the universe where they’re both supposed to be, even if the edges aren’t quite as raw and jagged as they used to be. 

Mom was supposed to see her sons’ milestones, encouraging them and comforting them as she always did when they were younger. She should have been there, drinking hot chocolate with them on bad nights, fussing over her sons's school dance corsages, sticking plasters on cut knees. She should be here now, enjoying their tropical island home, playing chess with Gordon, smothering them all senseless. She should be there in the future, holding a wriggly baby grandchild, wiping away tears at a wedding, smiling proudly at an award ceremony. She would have liked EOS, he thinks. She had always worried that John spent too much time alone. It's all so unfair.

Dad was supposed to be the one to teach John how to shave his peach fuzz away, not Scott. Dad should be here, running the company, dealing with men like Grafton and keeping everything together, not John. Dad wouldbe better at it, too. He would know how to put everybody at ease and he’d be able to say the magic words that would snap Scott right back to himself again, and… and God, it’s just not fair. None of this is fair. 

Although, says a little voice in John’s head, if Dad were here, he’d be the one attacked, and they’d all be crowding in the hospital around him. And Scott would be himself, really himself, not some lost, bruised ghost who doesn’t even know who John is—

John takes a deep breath and very carefully ignores that voice. He does not think about that possibility.

He does not allow himself the luxury of thinking.

What is, is.

What isn’t, isn’t. 

Mom is dead. Dad is dead. Scott is dead-in-spirit. It is illogical and unhelpful to think about what-if scenarios.

“I’m going to take a nap before the finance meeting,” he tells Emma. “Like I said, feel free to take a long break. If you go outside, though, can you do me a favour?”

“Sure. What is it, sweetie?”

“If that kosher deli down the road is still open, can you get me a bagel? You know, the one with the red sign.”

“Sure. Toasted, with cream cheese?”

John smiles. He knows he’s predictable. He's not hungry now, but he only got to eat about half his lunch before his mood was ruined. He'll definitely feel hungry again before he gets to eat dinner.

“Thank you, Emma. Put it on the expenses card and get yourself something, too,” he says, slipping into the office. He closes the door behind him, turns the lights on. 

All in all, it’s a fairly nice office. There’s a large holo-display table in the centre of the room, doubling as a conference table (or dining room, when Scott’s working late and relying on New York’s takeout delivery drivers). There’s a portable whiteboard standing at one end of the room, and in the corner behind it is a long couch and several comfortable chairs. There’s also a frosted glass door, followed by a plain white door that leads to a private bathroom, and a shower-slash-laundry room beyond that. Presumably Dad used to pull overnighters here too, back in the day. A pair of glass doors lead out onto a balcony that offers a stunning view of the city. The walls of the room are fitted with  panelling and discreet storage cupboards, at least one of which contains several of Scott’s suits and the formal shoes he despises. A large skylight makes up the bulk of the ceiling, bathing the room in natural light, and Scott’s desk sits to the right of the balcony, kept scrupulously clean by teeny little dust-bots.

Scott doesn’t spend much time in this office, but this space still feels inextricably linked to him. There’s a not-hidden-at-all candy stash in the bottom drawer of the desk, stuffed full of Scott’s guilty pleasures- most likely not hidden because there are supposed to be no brothers here to steal from it. One of the cupboards behind Scott’s desk contains sheets and pillows for the plush leather couch in the corner of the room, all plane-patterned. The old-fashioned radio sitting next to the balcony doors is set to Scott’s favourite station. The desk is covered in nigh-unreadable bioplastic sticky notes written in Scott’s trademark chicken scratch.

In the topmost drawer, nestled between a box of eyedrop pipettes, a candyfloss-flavoured chapstick and several whiteboard markers, are a couple of miniature framed photos: one is of Mom and Dad’s wedding, and the other contains all five Tracy brothers, plus Kayo smiling together, some ten years ago.  John recognises the latter photo— they’d gone camping that summer. 

The photos must have belonged to Dad— Scott wouldn’t have chosen them. And, Scott being Scott, he would never throw them away. John wouldn’t, either. They were good memories. Not necessarily his memories— he hadn’t been alive at the time of the wedding, and that camping trip had been a sunburnt, mosquito-infested nightmare for him. But the photos were memories nonetheless. A reminder of the good in the world.

John fetches the plane-patterned sheets and pillows from the cupboard. One pillow has started to take on John’s own scent, from the amount of time he’s spent napping here between meetings. His staggered sleep schedule might work excellently in space, where he needs to be on twenty-four-hour call, but down here it’s a liability. He can’t sleep a full night, and he’s exhausted all the time because his usual sleep times are either cut short or unavailable when he requires them.

The comforter, at least, still smells like Scott. And the other pillow still smells like him, too. John arranges himself on the couch, snuggling into the little nest he’s made, and then switches on his tablet and brings up the folder containing all the information John has on the attack. He shouldn’t keep reading through it, he knows it’s not healthy. But he needs to feel like he’s doing something, and maybe this time he’ll notice something that might help. And while he’s reading, he’ll probably fall asleep. 

“EOS,” John yawns. “Can you wake me at twenty to two, please? I need to go to a finance meeting and I’ll need some time to get ready and go down there.”

“Yes, John,” EOS says. “Sleep well. I shall turn down the light.”

“Thank you,” John mumbles. He chooses a document at random: Samuel White biography, the title reads.

Samuel White is a 38-year old man from Fort Worth, Texas. He is married to Louise White, 35, from Cincinnati, Ohio. They met through a blind date set up by mutual friends. 

They have four children: Avery (17, M), Diana (14, F),  Sophie (11, F) and Theodore (8, M). 

Samuel White is unemployed. Louise was a stay-at-home mother until approximately five months ago, when her husband was fired from Grafton Construction, following charges of theft. The allegations are still being investigated by an internal team at Grafton.

John pauses, reads the line again.

Grafton Construction. 

John worries at his lower lip. Well, that’s a weird coincidence.

At that moment, John's cellphone rings loudly. He startles, answers it with a cross “what do you want?” without even checking the caller I.D.

“It’s Scott!” Virgil sounds breathless, giddy. He laughs, a bright, ear-splitting burst of static. “He did it! He passed the tests! He’s officially oriented now, John— he’s gonna be okay!” 

Chapter Text

"More tea?” Yasmin asks. The pot, filled with a delicate Darjeeling, sits on the coffee table in her office. They’re not in the hospital room this time— Scott’s with one of the physiotherapists, going through a series of motor and reflex tests. Even if Scott weren't being tested, it'd be all but impossible to hold a conversation in that room: Virgil and his caffeine addiction have finally lost the silent war he's been waging on sleep. He's sprawled out on one of the couches in Scott's room, snoring away like there's no tomorrow.

Frankly, Sally's getting sick of Scott's room, luxurious as it is. Doctor Anwar's office is a nice change of pace. It's just large enough to be comfortable, flooded with bright natural light from a large window behind the desk, and decorated with calming cream-coloured walls and dark wood furniture. The western wall is taken up mostly by a fitted bookshelf, the other walls adorned with framed certificates: numerous degrees and awards, all made out to Y Anwar. An analogue clock on the wall displays the time: just after three-twenty.

"Yes, please," Sally answers. She doesn’t usually drink caffeine after lunch but… well, something tells her that she won't be sleeping much tonight, not that she sleeps much at all these days. That 'something' happens to be Scott's neurology reports, projected into the air above their teacups.

Yasmin tops up her cup, then places the pot back on its warmer.

"The signs are good, I'm not denying that," Yasmin says, honeyed vowels dripping softly from her mouth. "I'm just saying that Scott has a long recovery ahead of him."

Sally’s no neurologist. She’s very good at emergency medicine, ran her local hospital’s ER department almost single-handedly until her retirement. Even now, emergency medicine is an important part of her role in International Rescue, keeping her grandsons’ training up-to-date and providing care in particularly dire situations. Emergencies, she can do. But her med school and residency days are long behind her, and a week of frantic reading on recovery from neurological trauma does not compare with the experience and expertise of the woman sitting beside her. 

"How long do you think?" Sally asks. She reaches up, rubs gingerly at one gritty eye.

"It's hard to say," Yasmin says. "I need to run more tests. The X-rays and CAT scans are promising: it looks like everything is slowly knitting back together just as it ought to. He’ll have a slightly textured skull at the point of impact, but I don’t see anything that requires surgery.”

“That’s something, at least,” Sally sighs. “We’re lucky there was no open wound— Scott would have been very upset about having scars on his scalp. He’s very particular about his hair.”

“I noticed,” a ghost of a smile lifts the corners of Yasmin’s mouth. “My eldest is the same. At least yours has taken the grey hairs with grace— I’m dreading the day my Amir finds his first.”

“Oh, Scott’s only calm about it now,” Sally chuckles. “You should’ve seen him when he noticed his first one— you’d have thought the world was ending.”

Twenty-three. He’d gotten his first grey at twenty-three. Sally can’t help but wonder if it was because of the stress. He’d had an awful lot to deal with at the time, between wrangling the GDF, meeting Gordon and Alan’s needs, running Tracy Industries, and earning one of those business degrees. His brothers haven’t gotten any greys yet— not Virgil, who’s twenty-five now, nor John, now twenty-three.

“I can only imagine.” Yasmin takes another sip of tea. “I’ll add that to the list of interview questions.”

“How is that coming along, anyway?” Sally asks. “The other day, you said that you thought he might be missing a lot of time. Do you…?”

Sally trails off. Scott’s long-term memory is patchy, at best. Anybody can figure that out just by talking to him for a minute or two. She’s been doing her best to gauge just how bad it is, but there’s a world of difference between probing the memory of a trauma patient and hearing her own grandchild cheerfully guess incorrect answers to almost all of her questions.

“I had hoped that was simply his disorientation,” Yasmin admits. “But I think you were right— the disorientation passed much earlier than we thought, and it was his short-term memory that was the problem. On the plus side, his short-term memory appears to be near normal now. But as for his long-term memory…” 

Yasmin sighs, long and hard and heavy.

“Scott is very intelligent. He’s been awfully good at deducing what the thinks he ought to know. Trying to figure out what he doesn’t know is very difficult. Like a needle in a haystack.”

"He's always been like that. Part of what makes him such a good businessman," Sally murmurs, and then she chuckles. "Means he's hell to play poker with. I can tell you that from experience." 

Just like his mother. Lucille was an absolute demon at poker, too.

“I’d like to continue running tests over the next few days. There are a few things I’d like to keep an eye on— long-term memory aside, you may have noticed that Scott has some lingering issues with his balance, hand-eye co-ordination, and his impulse control.”

He’s better than he was, that’s for sure, but his odd gait and fine motor control haven’t improved much in the last few days. And as for his impulse control…

“Oh, boy, have I ever. The only reason he hasn’t eaten himself sick ten times over is because I’ve been rationing his candy.” Sally shakes her head. “Even when he was too nauseous to stand, he still wanted to eat his own weight in chocolate and cookies. That sweet tooth of his…”

“It’s quite spectacular,” Yasmin calls up an encyclopedia entry on the holo-display, sending it to Sally’s tablet with a quick swipe of her fingers. “There are a number of other behaviours I’d like you to watch out for. He’s been very calm so far, but given your high profile…”

“Sure, I get it,” Sally agrees. She takes a moment to dig her tablet out and skim the article. Some of the items on the list seem more likely to cause trouble than others. Explosive anger, for one: these days Scott’s very good at keeping his fiery temper under control, but he has his moments. Like that time Gordon and Penny got stuck in that Mayan temple because of that good-for-nothing professor, and Virgil had to physically drag Scott away from the man. “I’ll ask Virgil to look these over, too. He’ll be spending most of his time with Scott once he’s discharged.”

“I see,” Yasmin says. “May I ask what you’re planning so far?”

"I've been making arrangements," Sally replies. "We're going to go back to Kansas. Just a couple weeks at their childhood home. One of my sons lives in the state- he stops by the house every few months, makes sure it's being maintained properly by the company we hire."

"That's a good idea," Yasmin nods approvingly. "Comfortable, familiar surroundings could help Scott remember more quickly."

"After that, we need to get International Rescue running again. We're planning to use an old childhood vacation home, which was converted into a training facility." 

The boys are already starting to get restless, taking so much time off their self-imposed mission. And… well, International Rescue and the good publicity it brings is a significant part of why Tracy Industries is so successful. Everybody knows their products are high-quality and reliable, and that a portion of the money spent with Tracy goes toward making sure International Rescue can operate- that lives across the world can be saved. Stocks had jumped fivefold after Jeff first announced International Rescue’s founding, then plummeted after Jeff's disappearance, and finally jumped up again tenfold when Scott had announced his plans to restart International Rescue's operations. God only knows what the stocks are doing now. Tap-dancing on Jeff’s memorial stone, probably.

"I'm not sure Scott will be able to operate so soon,” Yasmin says, eyebrows furrowing.

"I know," Sally replies. “It would be far too early. Someone else will cover Thunderbird One. Once Scott is better, we'll move back to the island. And then, when he can pass all his training checks, he’ll be more than welcome to join International Rescue again.”

She’s sure he’ll leap at the chance. Scott genuinely loves International Rescue, for all the sleepless nights it gives him.

Yasmin looks at Sally, her brow slightly furrowed.

"When you say ‘when Scott is better’, what exactly do you mean?" 

"I guess…” Sally trails off. It’s hard to define. She knows Scott almost better than she knows herself, having watched and held him ever since he was just a tiny, pink-faced newborn. She knows when he’s him, and when he’s not. “When he's able to make informed decisions by himself. When we can dissolve the power of attorney arrangements. When he's capable of being part of the team again." 

“And how will you know when that time has come?”

Sally would know, she’s sure of it. She’d know, but… how can she describe everything that makes Scott truly himself? There’s so much of him, so bright and complicated and beautiful. She opens her mouth, but no words come out. No words could possibly suffice.

One moment passes, then two. The pleasant quiet of Yasmin’s office suddenly feels stifling. Yasmin leans forward, her elbows resting against her knees.

"Could I make a suggestion?" Yasmin asks, calmly and gently as ever. 

Sally nods, closing her mouth.

"A subjective set of criteria is a recipe for disaster in this sort of situation,” Yasmin says. “I'm sure you saw it countless times during your medical career. Where power of attorney is involved, you need a set of objective, measurable criteria for gauging Scott’s recovery. When Scott can do this, we can give him more control over that. When he has fulfilled these goals, we can give him those responsibilities back. Do you see what I mean?" 

"Yes, I do,” Sally could almost laugh. Of course. Such an obvious solution, one she's deeply familiar with, and yet somehow she hadn’t been able to think of it.

Was it because of exhaustion? She hasn’t slept much since Scott’s attack. Or is it because she’s too close to this case? It’s impossible to be objective when it’s her own precious grandson’s life at stake. Or is it old age getting the better of her? She certainly hopes not.

“Once I have a better idea of Scott’s current state, I’ll be able to draw up a comprehensive care plan for him, and you’ll be better equipped to deal with the legal side of things. When did you say his lawyer was visiting?”

“Tomorrow,” Sally says. “In the morning.”

Yasmin nods, her eyebrows furrowed in thought. 

“I’d like to talk with the lawyer, too,” Yasmin murmurs. She glances at Sally again. “Tomorrow morning will be a little too early for the care plan, though. Could we schedule a meeting for another day, too? Thursday?”

“I'm sure it won't be a problem, I’ll talk to Godfrey and Kayo about it,” Sally agrees. She takes a final sip of tea, setting the cup on a coaster. Keeping Scott sufficiently occupied for another three days is going to be tough, but they can do it. If they’re really lucky, Yasmin’s tests will be distracting and tiring enough that he won’t have  the energy to drive herself or Virgil insane with his restlessness. “Thank you for having this talk with me. I know you’re a busy woman.”

“It’s no trouble at all,” Yasmin replies. She takes another sip of tea before continuing. “I hope you know that I’m not trying to be pessimistic. I really do hope Scott recovers enough to go back to his old life. And I do think his chances are very good, based on what I’ve seen so far. It’s just that in cases like this, it is important to prepare for the worst, and hope for the best.”

“I know,” Sally murmurs. “I know you’re right.”

“I’ll have the preliminary care plan and prognosis report ready for you and your legal team on Thursday morning,” Yasmin promises. She reaches forward, lays one hand on Sally’s shoulder. “In the meantime… I know that this is a very difficult time for you and your family. If there’s anything I can do for you, let me know and I’ll do my very best to make it happen.”

“I will,” Sally tells her. “You’re very kind.”

“So are you,” Yasmin says, with a warm smile. She puts her cup on the coffee table, then stands up. “Now, I do believe Scott’s tests should be just about done by now. What do you say we go meet him?”

Chapter Text

Tuesday afternoon is when everything kinda starts to fall apart. 

Okay, so maybe that’s not super accurate. Everything kinda started falling apart when John had woken them all up just before five AM the Tuesday before. 

“There’s an emergency,” he’d said, EOS switching on all the lights in the house. “It’s Scott. Come to the living room.”

Waking up early? Bad. Waking up early to an emergency? Worse. Waking up to an emergency involving Scott? A nightmare— literally, Alan’s woken up from plenty of them. But the worst thing of all? 

John had sounded scared. 

John never sounded scared. Never, ever, ever. No matter how afraid he was or how bad of a situation he got stuck in, John always sounded calm and cool and collected. It was rule number one of dispatch, John had told him once, when Alan was visiting Five for a little training.

For John, of all people, to sound afraid… 

But it had been okay in the end, even though it had been terrifying for everybody. Virgil and Grandma had hustled them out to New York, and they’d seen Scott, and he’d been alive. He’d been super messed up in the head, and it had been more than a little scary. But it had been okay because no matter how messed up Scott was, they were a family and they always would be. Alan had just needed some reassurance, that’s all.

They’d kinda fallen into a routine, with Grandma and Virgil taking shifts at the hospital. They said it was because they thought Scott might feel scared, but Alan’s pretty sure that it was mostly to reassure themselves. Everything kinda started feeling like a vacation, especially after Penny arrived and Gordon started getting really excited about going to tourist attractions— okay, so John ended up basically vanishing, because he took over all the business and media stuff, but that wasn’t so different to their usual vacations, where he normally ended up ditching everybody else to go somewhere quiet with a clear view of the sky. Kayo was still leaving his messages on read, but Virgil and John said that she was just really busy, which made sense. She’d be back with them soon. Things were still kinda falling apart, but they were also kinda patched up, in a ‘duct tape and hope’ way.

It had all looked a bit better on Monday, when Virgil called everybody and said Scott was definitely getting better because he finally passed a bunch of tests. Grandma promised that they would all go see Scott on Tuesday evening, after she talked to his doctor. John had promised to be there, cramming three days’ worth of meetings into one and a half. And Kayo finally answered one of Alan’s messages with a little thumbs-up emoji. (To Gordon’s disappointment, Penny had decided to go visit her friend in Boston instead of coming with them to see Scott. Grandma said that she was probably trying to give them some space, but was too British to just come out and admit it.)

Maybe, Alan thinks, tying his shoelaces on the hotel room couch, everything is going to be okay. Maybe the universe is done playing with them.

“Are you almost ready?” Grandma asks. They’re going to head out in a minute— Grandma sent Gordon and John out about ten minutes ago to pick up the pizzas she ordered, and everybody’s gonna meet at Scott’s room. 

“Uh-huh,” Alan replies, tying a second knot on his right shoe. “I’m done.”

The couch shifts slightly as Grandma settles next to him, and he glances up to look at her. Grandma’s face is kinda unreadable, her eyes all soft and her mouth hard.

“Before we go see Scott, there’s something we need to talk about,” Grandma starts and the bottom of Alan’s stomach opens up, a wide, yawning void of dread. 

“What is it?” he asks.

“Allie, you know Scott loves you very much, don’t you?” Grandma asks, and she slips her hand around his. 

“Yeah,” Alan says, already not liking whatever Grandma’s about to say next. 

If Scott didn’t love him, he wouldn’t have come back from the GDF. If Scott didn’t love him, he wouldn’t have spent the last eight years trying to play Dad, nagging Alan to clean his room and do his homework, trying to teach him all the things Dad taught Scott when he was a kid. If Scott didn’t love him, Alan wouldn’t be part of International Rescue. If Scott didn’t love him, life would look a lot different. No hugs or smiles or pep talks or really pathetic attempts at playing video games together.

There’s a painful knot twisting in Alan’s void-stomach. He really, really wants Scott to keep on loving him.

“Good,” Grandma says, rubbing Alan’s knuckles gently, the same way she did right before they had to go to Dad’s funeral service. “Scott loves you, and he loves taking care of you. Anybody with a pair of eyes can see that. But right now, he’s not really able to care for himself all that much.”

“Is it because he nearly dropped the milkshake?” Alan asks. 

“The what?” Grandma blinks, frowning a little.

“When we went to see him last time. Gordy gave him a shake, and you had to help him hold it ‘cause his hands didn’t work right.”

Grandma’s mouth twists a little. 

“It’s a little because of that,” Grandma admits. “But there’s a lot of other stuff too— you’ll notice it when Scott’s discharged. He’s gotten a lot better over the last week, but he’s still not completely okay. And it’ll be a while before he gets completely okay again.”

“What kind of stuff?”

Grandma hesitates before she speaks. She hesitates.

Grandma never hesitates. 

“He’s a little clumsy,” she says, haltingly. “And he tends to trip over a lot. And, uh… his memory is still pretty awful.”

“What, like he forgets what he’s doing?” Alan asks. And then, desperately: “That’s okay! I can remember for him. I’m good at remembering stuff.”

“No, he’s fine with that now. But…” Grandma takes a deep breath. “Do you remember last week? When Scott asked where your mom and dad are?”

Alan bites his lip hard. His face is all hot again. He’s not gonna cry. He’s not. 

“Didn’t anybody tell him?”

Alan's voice is quiet, even to his own ears.

“He’s already having a hard time,” Grandma says. “And to be honest, I think he’s already guessed. There’s not a lot of other reasons the oldest son takes over the family business and guardianship over his little brother.”

“Well, if he knows, then there’s no problem, right?” Alan asks, and his eyes start going all blurry. He wipes them savagely with the back of his hand. “If he knows that they’re— then it’s all fine, and nothing has to change.”

“It’s not just your parents,” Grandma tells him, and her eyes are starting to look a little wet, too. “There’s a lot of other details he’s missing. I don’t know how bad it is— the doctors are still running tests, but Scott is a smart cookie. Too smart. It’s hard to tell when he knows something and when he’s just making an educated guess.”

“And that’s why John’s doing all the business stuff, right?” Alan asks. “Because if Scott was well enough, he’d be knee-deep in reports and virtual meetings already, wouldn’t he?”

“He would,” Grandma nods. “And it’s why Virgil’s going to run International Rescue, at least until he’s better. And it’s why I’m your legal guardian now.”

“Just until Scott’s better, right?” Alan asks. It’s not that he doesn’t love Grandma, it’s just that she’s not Dad and she’s not Scott. 

“Healing from that kind of injury takes time, kiddo,” Grandma tells him, and her voice has a terrible, breathy quality. “You’re already seventeen— by the time Scott’s better, you’ll already be an adult.”

Alan shakes his head. No. No, that's- that's too much.

“I don’t want to be an adult.”

Grandma manages a sad-looking smile. 

“Nobody does, kid,” she whispers. 

Alan’s not sure which one of them breaks first.

All he knows is that he promised himself he wouldn’t cry, but his body just does its own thing and he does anyway. He ends up with his arms wrapped tight around Grandma’s waist, her silver hair tickling his face, as she cradles him in turn.

Both of them cry, Grandma more quietly than Alan, but he can’t bring himself to feel embarrassed. 

He doesn’t know how long they stay like that. They just kind of hug each other and cry for a while, until Alan runs out of tears and Grandma’s cellphone starts buzzing. 

“Hello?” Grandma croaks, wiping her face with her sleeve. “Oh, Gordon—  you’re almost there? We’re on our way. See you soon, fifteen minutes, okay?”

That’s their cue to leave.

Alan fetches their coats while Grandma gets up, muttering something about her knees not being what they used to be. Then he finds a tissue box on the counter, stuffs a few tissues in Grandma’s hand as she hurries them out of the door. 

They end up taking a cab to the hospital, since Grandma’s arthritis flares up in the cold, and make it to the hospital in record time despite the traffic. Grandma gives the driver an extra tip to take them around the back, to the staff entrance that’s quickly opened for them by the same guard from last week. 

Grandma ushers him through the hallways, and there isn’t any time to get nervous about seeing Scott again. Even if there was, Alan wouldn’t chicken out of this: pizza is delicious and John promised to get him a super special awesome one with all the extra toppings he likes.

When Grandma opens the door to Scott’s room, Virgil’s setting out the boxes on the coffee table, helped and hindered in equal parts by Gordon. John and Scott are lounging on the couch, engrossed in a puzzle projected from Scott’s tablet. Grandma’s right— Scott does look better. He’s still all bruisy, with greeny-yellow patches around his eyes and purplish streaks under his eyes, but he looks alert and awake and a thousand times better than last week, a smug smirk on his lips.

“Stop touching that!” Virgil hisses, swatting Gordon’s hand away from the box he just put down. Then he sighs, gesturing at a box near Gordon. “I said fold the lid under the pizza box.”

“Yeah, but there’s cheese on the inside bit,” Gordon complains, glaring at the offending pizza with disdain. “It’ll get on the glass.”

“It doesn’t matter, we’ll clean it up lat—“ Virgil’s eyes slide up to the doorway as Alan and Grandma step inside. “Oh, hey, you guys made it!”

“Sorry we’re late, boys,” Grandma apologises, and then she lies: “I couldn’t find my glasses.”

“Well, you’re just in time for our pizza party!” Gordon grins. “C’mon, sit down!” 

“They’ve been making us wait for ages,” Scott grouses, but he’s still smiling a little and he even waves at Alan. “Hey, kiddo.”

“It’s pretty rude to eat before all the guests arrive,” Virgil tells him. “You should know better.”

“In all fairness, it’s not like we throw dinner parties often,” John pipes up. He shuts down the tablet puzzle, shifting over so that Alan can sit next to Scott. Grandma settles in the armchair near Gordon. 

“Okay, all done,” Virgil pushes the final pizza box into place, leaning back to admire his handiwork. He drags one of the dining chairs over, perching himself opposite Alan so that they’re all sitting within arm’s reach of a pizza they enjoy. 

There’s a plain cheese pizza for John, since he’s a purist, and a Hawaiian for Gordon, who seems to exist purely to cause chaos (and to keep Grandma sweet, she likes pineapple). It looks like Virgil plans to share Alan’s extra-spicy double pepperoni with peppers and onions and stuffed cheese crust, which is good ‘cause there’s a lot of it. And for Scott, there’s a meat special: Alan can make out sausage, ham, chicken and pepperoni, and he’s willing to bet there’s more hidden under the cheese. Stuffed between the boxes are sides: garlic bread knots, chicken wings, potato wedges, and more, accompanied by a bunch of dips.

“Ooh, where do I start?” Gordon moans, practically drooling.

“Start by giving everybody a drink, the bag’s right next to you,” Virgil tells him. 

“Fine, fine...” Gordon rummages through a carrier. “Uh… we have Sprite and water, basically. Ooh, or tropical juice. Don’t ask for juice, I want that.”

“I want Sprite!” Alan holds out a hand, and Gordon tosses him a can. As Gordon hands out the other drinks, Virgil nudges Scott. 

“Hey, we’re celebrating you,” he says. “How about you start? We got your favourite.”

“Uh… sure,” Scott agrees, but he hesitates and his brow furrows a little as he looks at the food. Almost like he’s not sure what he likes. And then Alan realises, like a bolt from the blue.

Scott doesn't know, does he? This is one of the gaps Grandma talked about, right? It’s got to be.

Someone needs to tell him. 

Not just this, but all of it. Whenever there’s a gap, someone needs to jump in and fill it, because otherwise Scott’s never going to know anything and he won’t get any better.

Scott’s eyes settle on the pizza closest to him— the Hawaiian, which Scott quietly hates almost as much as Virgil loudly hates— and Alan leaps into action. He grabs a napkin, then reaches over and tugs a piece of Scott’s pizza free, holding it out to his brother.

“I don’t know how you can enjoy this stuff!” he whines, wrinkling his face in what he hopes is a confused look. “Like, there’s not even any hot sauce on it!” 

The furrow between Scott’s brows vanishes, and he takes the slice with a smile.

“You’ll understand when you’re older,” Scott tells him, sounding so much like himself Alan could almost believe there’s nothing wrong at all.

Almost.

Chapter Text

Tanusha Kyrano is a coward.

That's the only way she can describe herself. If she were brave, she would have come here earlier, would have returned Virgil's jubilant voicemail and text messages. Instead she'd hidden in her hotel room, digging frantically through her dead-end investigation, hoping to find something– anything– to justify avoiding her failure just a little while longer. But there have been no further clues, no neatly packaged 'why's, no hint at some nefarious plot she can unpick and neutralise. All the available evidence points to one conclusion: Samuel White's attack had been nothing more than an outburst of rage.

A random attack. She should have had more stringent security measures in place. More contingencies. If there had been no crowd outside Tracy Industries, maybe the security officers would have spotted White before he struck. If Scott had spent less time in the open, White might not have struck. If she’d provided Scott with some kind of protective gear, if, if, if…

She takes a deep breath, letting the icy air fill her lungs. Dwelling on the past has only one use: preparing for the future. She’s done that. A thousand times over, she’s done that. And now there are no more excuses. There can be no further avoidance.

Kay— no, Tanusha—  holds her head high as she enters the hospital. A flash of silver hair catches her eye: Godfrey is already inside, speaking on his cellphone as he waits near the gift shop. He raises one hand in greeting. Tanusha catches the last moments of conversation as she approaches.

“All right, I’ll be home by eight. Love you, bye,” Godfrey ends the call, shoving his phone in his pocket before turning his attention to her. “Are you ready?”

“No,” Tanusha admits. “But let’s get it over with.”

“That’s the spirit,” Godfrey pats her shoulder, just as her father used to, and they head for the elevator.

They’re not going to Scott’s room— thank God— but to one of the meeting rooms on the first floor. Godfrey leads the way, partly because he knows where they’re going: he met with Scott’s doctor there a few hours earlier, as well as with the whole Tracy family a few days beforehand. It’s also partly because Tanusha simply doesn’t want to be there, and she finds herself falling behind him despite her best efforts at ignoring her shame and dread.

Godfrey pauses for a moment when they reach the door.

“Chin up,” he tells her, before opening the door. Tanusha raises her head and squares her shoulders before following him in.

The conference room is exactly what one would expect: bland and functional, with white lights that slightly wash out all the colours. Sitting around the round meeting table are four of the most important people in Tanusha’s life. Scott, of course, plus the three people who currently share legal responsibility for him: John, to Scott’s right, then Grandm— Mrs Tracy and Virgil on his left. Gordon and Alan aren’t here, though.

It’s probably better that they aren’t here. This won’t be a pleasant discussion, not when Tanusha has to admit to all her failures.

Scott seems fine, smiling as he murmurs something to his grandmother. He's wearing some loose-fitting athletic gear, and has a plaster stuck over the bridge of his nose. His bright blue eyes are surrounded by half-healed, greeny-yellow bruises, his nose noticeably crooked, but he’s here. He’s upright. He’s smiling. He’s fine.

Scott’s family seem somewhat less fine, though if Tanusha weren’t so closely acquainted with the Tracy clan, she probably wouldn’t have noticed the small signs betraying their exhaustion. John's wearing a pressed suit, but his hair is slightly greasy, despite his usual fastidiousness. Mrs Tracy's glasses are a little askew, deep bags forming under her eyes. There's a fine layer of stubble dusting Virgil's jaw, his flannel shirt wrinkled as though he slept in it.

“Good afternoon, everybody,” Godfrey announces their arrival with a smile, his green eyes almost grey in the too-bright light. Scott stands to greet them, holding his hand out for a shake.
 
“Hi, Godfrey, nice to see you.”

“Nice to see you too, Scott,” Godfrey shakes his hand before taking his seat. He takes his tablet and keyboard from his briefcase, along with a slightly larger holo-display unit. “You feeling better?”

“A little,” Scott says, and then he flashes Tanusha a dazzling, dimpled smile. “Hey, I’m Scott.”

There's not a single spark of recognition in his eyes. His smile completely lacks warmth or familiarity. And he's offering her his hand, like she's a stranger.

She might as well be. She certainly deserves to be.

Tanusha takes his hand, shakes once.

“I know,” she says, somehow managing to keep her voice level. “Hello, everybody.”

A chorus of greetings fill the room as Tanusha and Scott settle into their chairs, and then Scott violently flinches.

“Ow!” he hisses, glaring at John.

“Scott, you shouldn't listen to Virgil— he's got the worst sense of humour," John says, far too loudly. "Pretending you don't know our sister is really mean-spirited."

"Uh…" Scott blinks, looking lost, and then Virgil joins in with the fakest laugh Tanusha has ever heard.

"Oh, yeah, I guess it was kind of mean," Virgil says, and the smile that stretches across his mouth is clearly forced. He's an even worse actor than John, which frankly shouldn't be possible. He reaches over, behind Mrs Tracy, and pats Scott's shoulder. "Sorry, man. I shouldn't have told you to do that."

They’re trying to spare her feelings. She doesn't deserve it. How can she? Scott might be physically sitting here, but he's known her from the moment of her birth– just a few months after Gordon. He was nine years old at the time.

If Scott doesn't know her, then just how little of him remains in that body? Just how thoroughly did Tanusha destroy her own— her old— family? 

“You have no idea who I am, do you?” she asks, quietly. 

Scott’s eyes widen, a mingled expression of shock and mortification passing over his face before he scoffs, waves one arm casually. 

“Of course I do,” he says. “You’re my sister, how could I possibly forget?”

“John just told you that,” Tanusha replies. “What’s my name?”

“Uh…” Scott’s mouth drops open gormlessly for a split second, and then he snaps at John again, jerking away from him. “Hey, quit tapping me! I’m trying to think, here!”

John’s body language changes minutely: his mouth tightens and his back stiffens, a small line forming between his eyebrows. On anybody else, that would signify mild worry. But John is always so controlled and deliberate, his exterior rarely expressing the vast constellations burning brightly inside his mind. He’s terrified.

“You forgot Morse code?” he asks, hoarsely. 

“I got hit in the head with a brick! I forgot a lot of things.” Scott exclaims, crossing his arms defensively. 

“Like my name,” Tanusha says. “It’s Tanusha, by the way.”

“I was going to guess that,” Scott replies. Beside him, John stares wordlessly at Tanusha, a facial expression she's only seen twice before. On most other people, it would signal slight disappointment. On John, it's devastation. He understands exactly what she means. And despite sitting right next to John, Scott somehow doesn’t notice his brother’s clear anguish.

He’s broken. Scott is… he’s all broken.

“No, you weren’t,” Tanusha replies. 

Mrs Tracy lets out a deep sigh, reaches out to cradle Scott’s hand. 

“No, you weren’t,” she agrees. “Scotty, dear, you don’t have to lie to protect our feelings. We love you. It’s all right if you don’t remember some things. You were hit pretty hard.”

“Because of me,” Tanusha adds. “And for that I’m sorry. I… I truly am, Scott.”

“It wasn’t your fault!” Virgil interjects. “It was that guy— that Sam Whoever— he’s to blame for all this."

“Yes. And I didn’t prevent his attack, so it is my fault,” Tanusha insists. “I’m your head of security. I should have had measures in place for exactly this sort of thing. I didn’t do my job right, and now you’re...” 

Tanusha gestures at Scott, the room blurring dangerously around them. She sucks in a deep breath. 

“It won’t happen again,” she promises. “I have a brand-new set of security protocols ready for your discharge. Godfrey, shall we start the brief?”

“Yes, but in just a sec,” Godfrey frowns, the wrinkles around his eyes deepening. He leans forward in his chair. “This is concerning. Scott, I’ve spent the last three days drawing up agreements for ending your power of attorney protocols. All of them assume that you currently retain a certain level of knowledge about your work.” 

“Well, I mean…” Scott shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “How hard can it be?” 

“Really hard,” John says, his eyes fixed on the table. His fists are under the table, but Tanusha can tell without looking that they’re clenched into white-knuckled balls. “Running a multi-billion-dollar conglomerate is really, really hard.” 

“Oh, no…” Virgil mutters, looking distinctly paler than he did before. Which, given the Tracy brother’s general lack of melanin— Gordon’s year-round tan excepting— is quite impressive.

“Your doctor told me earlier that your memory is very patchy,” Godfrey says, folding his hands in front of him on the table. “Scott, if I’m going to put together a realistic plan of action for you and your family, I need to know what I’m working with.”

“She told you that? Isn’t that against HIPAA?”

“Your grandmother consented. She currently holds all legal power over your medical care. She’s the one signing the forms, consenting to tests and treatments, and so on.”

“Just until you’re better, dear,” Mrs Tracy says.

Scott’s jaw tightens noticeably. 

“I’m not sure I like that,” he mutters. 

“It doesn’t matter whether you like it or not,” Godfrey says, bluntly. “It’s what was in your living will. You wanted your grandmother to have legal responsibility over your medical care, John to have control over your finances and business, and for Virgil to provide day-to-day care and take responsibility for all other legal matters.”

“What about Gordon?” Scott asks, which is not something anybody who experienced Teenage Gordon first-hand should ever say.

“Have you met Gordon?” John wrinkles his nose. 

“He was a kid when you wrote it,” Virgil supplies. “Also, yes, John’s right. Gordon is… uh… well, he’s Gordon.”

Scott blinks once, then twice. 

“Okay,” he says, clearly not understanding one bit. 

“But, y’know, if you need any help with marine biology or environmental conservation, he’s totally your guy,” Virgil says, helpfully. 

“I guess that doesn’t apply here,” Scott mutters, leaning back in his chair. He bites his lip, but doesn’t say anything more. 

“Can you tell me a little more?” Godfrey asks. “I know you probably don’t remember the day of the attack, maybe not even the month of, but what do you remember? What’s the last thing you can clearly recall?”

Scott is quiet. Too quiet. He quietly drums his fingers on the table, a deep frown marring his features.

“Um. There's not a lot. It’s all fuzzy,” he mutters, after a long moment. “And it’s all disjointed. It kinda feels like a snapshot of something bigger.”

“Go on, dear,” Mrs Tracy encourages him, though her face is troubled. Virgil silently digs a handkerchief out of one of his pockets, hands it to her.

“It’s not like since I woke up. It’s not a clear series of events,” Scott admits. The drumming gets harder, faster. His shoulders are tense, jaw tight. He’s agitated. “Like… for instance, there’s this woman, standing in an old-looking kitchen. She’s not facing me, she’s looking out of the window. I think she’s washing the dishes. And she’s got this really long, strawberry-blonde hair and it's all braided up. And she’s wearing a blue sweater. It’s almost the same colour as the sky outside. And that’s it. Like someone took a photograph of that moment and stuck it in my brain. I don't know where it was or who she is.”

Lucille. It sounds like Scott’s talking about his mother.

Tanusha barely remembers the woman— she’d been twelve years old when Auntie Lucy had failed to come home from Jeff and the boys’ winter holiday. But she remembers Auntie Lucy’s kind eyes and pretty smile and her long, Rapunzel-like hair. It had been a beautiful copper-tinted blonde, silky and shiny and thick. Tanusha had been mesmerised as a little girl, absolutely thrilled when Auntie Lucy let her try to plait her hair. And she’d been utterly awed when Auntie Lucy returned the favour, styling Tanusha’s hair into something pretty and delicate, complete with little sparkly clips she’d been allowed to keep.

“Now we match, Tin-tin!”

Tanusha’s stomach sinks. Aunti— Ms Tracy had been so warm and kind and welcoming to her, right up until she’d stopped existing altogether. And what has Tanusha done to repay that kindness and warmth? She's all but killed her son.

"So you remember very little of your life before the attack?” Godfrey asks, his voice quiet and soft. Almost soothing— nearly as soothing as Dad and Jeff. 

Scott nods. Like John, his eyes are fixed on the table. Tanusha can’t blame either of them: wooden whorls are much easier to bear than the weight of another person’s gaze. 

“Fuck.” 

Tanusha can’t immediately place who said it. A deep, male voice, so not Mrs Tracy. An American accent, so not Godfrey. John’s mouth is pressed so tightly together his lips are no longer visible, and Scott’s mouth didn’t move. Which leaves only one person. 

Virgil’s trembling, practically curled in on himself, his brown eyes blown wide in what must be despair. 

Usually either Scott or Mrs Tracy would hush him, with a strong ‘language!’. Neither does. 

“How did we not know about this?” Virgil’s voice cracks. “I— I didn’t know it was so… Scott, why didn’t you say anything?”

“I didn’t want to worry you guys,” Scott’s eyes look a little too bright. “I mean, you’re so nice, and I thought it was probably just the concussion.”

“It might still be the concussion,” Mrs Tracy murmurs, soothingly. 

“And, you know, it’s kind of awkward, right?” Scott lets out a sad, damp-sounding chuckle. “Like, when’s a good time to come out with something like that? ‘Hey, man, I know you’re busy helping me brush my teeth and all, but I was wondering what you do for a living’. Or ‘good morning, how’d you sleep, what kind of business do I run, again’?”

“Technology,” John answers.

“I think it was a rhetorical question, dear,” Mrs Tracy replies, kindly. “Scott, do you need a tissue? I have a handkerchief right here.”

“No, I’m fine,” Scott says, shaking his head. A tear drips onto the table, Scott’s breathing now heavy and laboured. 

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, you’re still an idiot!” Tanusha snaps. “Take the damned hanky, stop pretending to be okay, and let us help you!”

Scott’s head snaps up and he stares at her with an extremely un-Scott-like expression, all blank and stricken and pale. He blinks again, his mouth contorting horribly. 

“We’re your family,” Mrs Tracy tells him, and that seems to be the final straw. Scott’s head falls again, a jerky hand coming up to cover his face as a painful, heaving sob wracks his throat. 

John moves faster than Tanusha has ever seen another human being move, lunging out of his chair to envelope Scott in a hug. Mrs Tracy follows almost immediately— Tanusha would wager that her arthritis is the only thing slowing her down. Virgil takes the time to stand, enveloping them all from behind in one of his famous bear-hugs. 

“Love you,” John’s voice is thin, reedy, and his body shudders in the tell-tale way of one weeping. Mrs Tracy wipes at her eyes, Scott pressing his face into her shoulder.

Tanusha stands, helplessly curling and uncurling her fingers. How many times have these people comforted her in her hour of need? She should return the favour. 

She shouldn’t. 

She needs to join them. 

She has no right. 

Her family needs her.

This is all her fault. 

Scott chokes, grasping desperately at Virgil’s shirt. 

“—‘m sorry,” he cries. “So, so sorry…”

“Why are you sorry?” Virgil manages, sucking in a deep breath. He’s crying, too— they all are. 

“‘Cause I— ” Scott gasps into Mrs Tracy’s shoulder, “—I should be better than this. ‘M sorry.” 

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” Mrs Tracy murmurs, pressing a damp kiss to his hair. “Nobody in this room has anything to apologise for.”

Tanusha’s steel self-control shatters, and Kayo rounds the table in a few short steps. She slips in beside Virgil, winding her arms as far around her family as she can. 

“You’re fine, Scott,” she whispers into his ear. “You’re not alone.”

Scott moans something unintelligible and painful-sounding and a large, pale hand lands on Scott’s shoulder.

“Everything will be all right,” Godfrey says, softly. “You’re a Tracy. It’s in your nature to overcome.”

Godfrey pats Kayo’s back sympathetically before heading to the door, his briefcase already in hand.

“I’m rescheduling this meeting for tomorrow. I’ll draw up new plans for you tonight,” he says. “In the meantime, take as much time as you need. I’ll make sure you’re left alone here.”

With that, he’s gone, leaving only Kayo and her family huddled together, a raging storm of grief and fear and love.

Kayo lays her head in the crook between Virgil and Scott’s shoulders, fingers curling tightly in John’s jacket and Grandma’s cardigan, anchoring herself firmly in place. And then— only then— does she finally allow herself to break.

Chapter Text

“Remind me why I’m doing this, again?”

Scott looks utterly miserable, seated in the centre of the hotel room couch, drumming his fingers irritably on his knees. There are several half-drunk cups of coffee on the table in front of them, as well as a tub of hair gel, a bottle of cologne, and a small carrier bag. There is a pair of axillary crutches leaning within arm’s reach. Scott manages to otherwise stay still as Mrs Tracy carefully combs gel through his hair, avoiding the tender spot where his skull is broken. 

Penny swirls her brush on the back of her hand, removing excess concealer. She leans forward to dab at Scott's remaining bruises, carefully avoiding his still-swollen nose bridge. The plaster might have been removed, but those bones are still fragile. 

“Because you’re the world’s number one news story and Tracy Industries’ stock has been wildly unstable since you were nearly killed on live television,” she answers. “Also, the public keep sending gifts and get-well messages to your companies, and while that is very, very nice of them, it’s also wholly unnecessary and the poor Tracy Industries post room employees are having an absolutely terrible time dealing with the sudden influx on top of their usual duties.”

Slowly, the sickly green-yellow starts to vanish. She’d been very lucky that the makeup store down the street had been open so early– John had followed Penny’s instructions to the letter and gotten everything she’d asked for. And he’d even thought to buy some lollipops from a nearby convenience store, mostly for bribery— Scott has a cherry-flavoured one stuck in his mouth right now. She’s fairly sure Alan and Gordon ‘borrowed’ a few earlier, before Virgil ushered them out of the suite for some last-minute tourism at the Statue of Liberty.

“Can we pay them extra for that?” Scott asks. “The post room guys, I mean.”

How typical of Scott, wanting to take care of everybody. Just like his parents. 


“John’s already taken care of it, kiddo,” Mrs Tracy says. “The mail room workers are getting double pay for their trouble. And a nice little bonus, too.”

“Once they’re finished sorting the gifts, everything except food items with a short shelf life will be donated to local charities,” Penny adds. “The short-life food will be shared amongst employees, after being checked for safety. And the cards and messages are going to your temporary base of operations in Colorado.”

“The ranch, right?” Scott asks, and Penny doesn’t miss the way Mrs Tracy pauses, her hands trembling as she sets the comb down on the coffee table, next to the hair gel tub.

“The ranch,” Penelope inclines her head with a warm smile that does not betray the anxiety twisting her stomach. It’s very strange to see Scott like this, somehow both entirely unlike himself— confused, clumsy, exhausted— and yet also so achingly familiar. 

“Gran Roca,” Mrs Tracy says, gently running her fingers through Scott’s newly-gelled hair, creating something a little more casual, a little more windswept than his usual businesslike style. Satisfied, she presses a kiss to his temple. Uncharacteristically, Scott does not attempt to move away. “It was your mom’s home, once upon a time.”

Scott is quiet for a moment, letting Penny carefully set the concealer with her favourite powder. It's hard to tell just what he's thinking. Penny starts clearing away the makeup, stuffing everything back into the carrier bag, to be popped into the recycler at some later point.

“Are you coming out there with us, Penelope?” Scott asks.

“Oh, no, poppet,” Penelope lets out a short chuckle. “I’m going to stay here for another week, and then I’m off home. But I’ll see you all off at the airport tomorrow, for your flight to Topeka. It’ll be quite early, though— Virgil says the drive to your family farm is about three hours, and you’ll want to get there before sunset, won’t you?”

As nice as sight-seeing with Alan and Gordon has been, the Tracy family really do need some quality time together. She’s already intruded enough.

“I guess so,” Scott replies, looking a little disappointed.

“I’m sure I can find the time to visit you all a little later, though.” Penelope adds. “I’d quite like to spend a week or two enjoying those lovely mesas outside Gran Roca. Perhaps during summer.”

Summer. 

Virgil had been so sure, just a few days ago, that Scott would be back to his old self in no time at all. Mrs Tracy had thought it might take a while longer— months instead of weeks, possibly with a few longer-lasting effects. Penelope had been quite inclined to agree with Mrs Tracy and her decades of experience. 

And then, on Tuesday evening, the fragile hope they’d all shared had shattered, with the awful news Scott's legal guardians had brought back from their meeting with Kayo.

Seeing Scott now, Penelope can quite understand how nobody had realised how bad his memory loss was. He’s clever, far too clever by half, constantly picking up pieces of information and hurriedly slotting them together in that empty space inside his head. He’s always been very good at thinking on his feet, and his friendly, confident personality is almost enough to paper over the gaps in his knowledge. If not for the fact that Scott’s been so unusually quiet and obedient, only protesting when Virgil tried to make him put on a pair of buttoned trousers earlier, she wouldn’t have known that there was anything wrong at all. 

Summer, Penny had thought, just a few days ago. A lovely little garden party to celebrate Scott’s recovery would be just the ticket, wouldn’t it? She’d invite them all to the manor sometime in late August. They’d enjoy a nice barbecue and play some games and reminisce long into the evening over fruit punch and tea and nibbles. 

And now here she is, instead planning a visit to a friend who may never remember her. 

The suite door opens, jerking Penny out of her thoughts. Parker sticks his head though the doorway, little Sherbet clutched to his chest.

“Excuse me, Milady, Sir, Madam. The press ‘ave h’assembled downstairs. Mister John ‘as started thanking ‘em for coming. H’is Mister Scott ready?”

Penny sets her brush down, casts a critical eye over Scott’s appearance. He looks healthy enough, thanks to the concealer. Much better than he had just a few hours ago, after being discharged. He's fully dressed, in an outfit that had been rustled up at extremely short notice: John had only managed to confirm the press conference a few minutes before sitting down for breakfast this morning, since the family’s rather complicated legal matters had taken up so much of the last few days.

Scott’s currently wearing one of Virgil’s black t-shirts and John’s favourite pair of black jeggings, as well as a pair of shiny brown loafers and a bright blue blazer which had been liberated from Scott’s office at Tracy Industries. Thanks to the combined efforts of Virgil and the emergency sewing kit he’d managed to beg off the hotel staff, the blazer buttons have been removed and attached to the outer lapel instead. Several snap-fasteners have been hurriedly sewn into their place, giving the illusion of a normal suit jacket. No buttons, as per Scott’s insistence. Penelope has not inquired as to why Scott feels quite so strongly about them. It would be terribly rude, after all. And in all honesty, she doesn’t need to ask. The crutches and Scott’s rough handling of his coffee cup earlier had been quite enough of a clue. Poor motor control.

“Well?” Mrs Tracy asks, laying one wrinkled hand on Scott's shoulder. He reaches up to squeeze her hand, the same way Mrs Tracy always tries to comfort her grandsons. So unlike him; he’s not normally one for hand-holding. And yet at the same time, it is so very Scott. He’s always adored his grandmother, would do anything to make her- or any other family member- feel reassured.

“I’m ready,” Scott answers. His shoulders are a little tense, but he's smiling.

Mrs Tracy rises, fetches the box sitting on the coffee table. She opens it, handing the earpiece inside to Scott. He puts it on without question. 

“Now, what did John tell you before he went downstairs?” Mrs Tracy asks.

“After I read the statement, I’m going to choose some reporters for questions. John will be sitting in the next room, whispering answers to me over this thing, and I just have to repeat him and act like I really mean what I’m saying.”

“That’s right,” Mrs Tracy says. “Just do your best. If you say something wrong, don’t worry— everybody knows you were injured.. This is just to avoid any hysteria from the public and get the media off our backs.”

“And the stocks,” Scott adds. 

“And the stocks,” Mrs Tracy concedes. She holds out her hand. “Lolly. You can’t eat at the press conference. I'll give you more later.”

Scott scowls, but obeys, dropping the stick and remaining candy into her hand. Mrs Tracy drops it into a nearby wastepaper basket. 

“Anything you need?” Mrs Tracy adds. “Water, coffee, bathroom, breath mint? Better get it out of the way now.”

“I think I’m good.”

“Atta boy,” Mrs Tracy smiles. She pinches his cheeks— the normal Scott would have protested, but this injured Scott seems to enjoy the attention— and turns her attention to Penny. “Ready to go, dear?”

“Of course,” Penelope replies. Once Scott’s up and balanced on his crutches, they’re off. Penelope scoops Sherbet into her arms while Parker mutters to John through his earpiece.

“H’we’re h’on our way, Mister John.” 

Penny can almost hear John’s crackly “FAB” as she passes.  By the time they get downstairs, John is waiting for them outside the function room, alongside another familiar face.

“Hi, Scott,” Kat Cavanaugh waves, beaming brightly as they approach. Penelope immediately understands what John and Gordon had been talking about the other day, when Gordon had been bemoaning Scott’s success with women. Yes, Cavanaugh certainly seems to have fallen under Scott’s spell. The Lemaire dress she’s wearing is a classic, brightly-coloured shift, perfectly acceptable wear for a professional, but nevertheless a far cry from her normal pantsuits. Her face has been carefully made up with deep red lipstick and carefully-curled hair. “Are you ready for the press conference?”

“I’m about as ready as I’ll ever be,” Scott replies. “Nice to see you, by the way.”

“It’s nice to see you too,” Cavanaugh says. And then, quickly: “you look good.”

“Well, thank you,” Scott blinks, momentarily taken aback, before smiling once again, his voice dropping low. “So do you.”

Cavanaugh’s cheeks turn a little pink, and she lets out a soft chuckle. 

“I’m glad to see you’re doing all right. We were all pretty worried about you.” Cavanaugh gives everybody else a polite nod. “Well, I suppose I’ll see you inside. Bye for now.”

She doesn't wait for a reply, and Scott's eyes follow Cavanaugh as she walks toward the door. As soon as it closes behind her, his attention snaps to John.

“Who was that?.”

“Kat Cavanaugh. A journalist. But a journalist that likes you.”

“Doesn’t everybody like me?” Scott raises one eyebrow. 

“Most people, sure,” John shrugs. “But she like-likes you. Remember how someone gave you that expensive paper card with the phone number written inside? Gordon showed you last Wednesday.”

Scott shakes his head.

“No. I barely remember last Thursday.”

“Oh.” John looks uncomfortable, stammering over his next words. “Uh, w-well, that was, uh… that was Kat. The note she wrote indicated the phone number was intended for purely professional purposes, but…”

John shrugs, suddenly looking a little helpless.

“Yes, I agree,” Penny adds. “That girl has a terrible crush. Be nice to her, Scott. Don’t lead her on.”

Scott splutters. 

“I wouldn’t!” 

“That’s right,” Mrs Tracy coos. “Because you’re a nice young man, aren’t you?”

“Better than Gordon,” Parker mutters. 

John checks his watch. 

“We’re almost out of time,” he says. “Scott, you go in, right up to the podium, and wait for EOS to display the speech I wrote on the back wall. You remember what you have to do, right?”

“Yes,” Scott replies, and this time he sounds a little testy. “Grandma checked already. I read the speech, act confident, and ask for questions. You tell me what to say through my earpiece.”

“Good,” John looks relieved. “And you know we can’t mention the amnesia at all, right? The physical stuff can’t really be hidden, but we can work with it. But we can’t risk what public knowledge of your memory loss could do to the company, much less what our enemies might do with that information.”

Scott’s jaw drops.

“Enemies?” he squeaks.

“Uh…” John’s eyes open wide, a fantastic impression of a deer stuck in headlights. 

“Competitors,” Penelope interjects. Which is only technically a fib, because the currently-free Hood sort of has a history of competing against International Rescue, doesn’t he? And there are probably plenty of less-scrupulous businessmen, like Fischler, who could try to use Scott’s memory problems for their own benefit. “John means competitors, don’t you?”

“Uh, yeah," John grabs her lifeline, relief practically seeping from every pore. "Competitors. I meant that.”

“Right…” Scott doesn’t look very convinced, and that’s when his grandmother leaps into action.

“Come on, dear, we’d better go in,” Mrs Tracy takes Scott’s elbow, gently steering him toward the door. "Hurry, hurry, we can't keep everybody waiting."

“I’ll stay with you, John,” Penelope says, scratching Sherbet gently under the chin. “Where to?” 

“The manager said I could use the dining room over there. It’s not being used today.”

Said dining room is vast and empty, but EOS has declared it sufficiently secure. They sit at one of the tables near the door. Penelope sets Sherbet down on the carpet with one of his favourite self-directed ball toys, as John brings up the live feed from the next room and Parker mutters about not pickpocketing the crowd gathered there being a ‘missed h’opportunity’. 

On the holographic display, Scott flashes one of his charming smiles at the cameras. He probably could've had a great career as a movie star, thanks to those dimples alone. His eyes flicker upward, at something slightly above the cameras. Presumably the projection John promised. 

“Good morning, everybody,” Scott starts. “Thank you all so much for coming. As I’m sure you’re all aware, my name is Scott Tracy. I’m the owner and Chief Executive Officer of Tracy Industries, as well as the commander of International Rescue…”

As Scott speaks, doing an admirable job of appearing to genuinely understand and mean every word coming out of his mouth, Penelope’s cellphone starts to ring. 

“I’m sorry,” she apologises, intending to shut it off. But the name flashing on the screen is rather worrying. 

Colonel Casey. She does not call on Penelope lightly.

“Hello?” she asks, answering the call. 

“I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time, Lady Penelope,” Casey’s voice is calm and level as ever. “I’m afraid I need your assistance. Normally I would call Kayo, but with everything going on with Scott, I thought it’d be better to call you instead.”

“What is it, Colonel?”

“It’s the Hood. He’s resurfaced. Worse, he has a new set of minions. They call themselves the Chaos Crew.”

“I see,” Penelope murmurs. “That is rather distressing.”

Chapter Text

The interview room is warm and brightly-lit, four comfortable meeting chairs gathered around a wooden table. Contrary to popular belief, people who feel at ease are far more likely to let slip valuable information than those on edge. Everybody knows the Bad Cop routine. In Daniel’s experience, the Good Cop routine gets better results.

That said, it isn’t as though Daniel needs good results here. The case is as open-and-shut as it gets. Samuel White nearly killed Scott Tracy in front of at least ten eyewitnesses, with upward of twenty cameras recording the whole thing. All evidence he and Hannah have collected so far has backed up the cameras and witnesses. There’s no doubt at all what White did.

But there’s something not quite right about all this. One thing that’s been driving Daniel crazy. Just one thing he can’t figure out.

Why?

White’s got a means, sure. And an opportunity. But what was the motive? 

The holo-projector in the middle of the table is open, showing Samuel White's charge sheet.

“Attempted murder, second-degree assault with a dangerous instrument…” Daniel trails off, looks up at the people sitting across the table from him. "Both felonies, by the way."

On the left, hunched over in a prison jumpsuit, is Samuel White himself. Pale, thin, with mousy brown hair and tired brown eyes. On the right, dressed in a dark blue dress and a matching jacket, is the public defender assigned to the case.

Hartman. She’s a charitable woman, agreeing to represent the one man nobody else has been willing to touch. A strong believer in the fact that everybody needs a defence for the justice system to work, and more than willing to bear the brunt of the public’s anger— and the public is very angry over this. There have been three protests outside the GDF-NYPD office over the Tracy case in the past five days, condemning White as a monster, demanding swift justice for Tracy. 

The public outcry has been further fuelled by newscasters. Ned Cook’s weekly talk show now prominently features an interview segment with people who have been rescued by Tracy and his brothers, lamenting how such a horrible attack could happen to such a good person. Kat Cavanaugh’s daily show touches on the Tracy case in every episode, oscillating between highlighting Tracy’s past good deeds and aggressively questioning the GDF’s competency. Even Eddie Kerr is in on the action, providing bite-size daily breakdowns of the publicly available case data.

White couldn’t have picked a worse man to target if he’d actively tried. Daniel wouldn’t be surprised if he has to assign a squad to keep an eye on Hartman’s offices once her work with White becomes public knowledge. It’s going to be a nightmare for everybody— or maybe it’s already a nightmare for her. He’s only worked alongside Hartman once or twice, but she doesn’t seem quite as put-together as he remembers. Her greying hair has been pulled back into an uncharacteristically messy bun, her lipstick unevenly applied, and the skin around her manicured fingernails looks suspiciously reddened, as though she’s been anxiously picking and scratching. Her expression does not betray her anxiety, though. She simply fixes Daniel with a cool green gaze.

“It doesn’t look good, Sam,” Daniel says, closing the charge sheet.

Ten seconds tick by, then twenty.

White doesn’t say anything. He doesn't even meet Daniel's steady gaze.

“Texas is a pretty long way from New York,” Daniel remarks, calling up a copy of White’s internet history from the week before the attack.

White’s searches had largely consisted of journey planning, with queries like IS IT LEGAL TO SLEEP IN YOUR CAR, NU-GAS PRICE PER GALLON EAST COAST, HYPERLOOP TICKET LOTTERY, TRAIN JOURNEYS TX NY, COACH TICKETS FORT WORTH, BUDGET HOSTEL NEW YORK, PAYDAY LOAN FAST. 

“Seems like coming up here was pretty important to you," Daniel tries again. "Why was that?”

White remains silent. His eyes stay fixed on his hands, clasped together on the table. The guy looks like a wreck, with a gaunt face and greying stubble and exhausted bags under his eyes.

Not surprising. They’ve had to put him in solitary for his own safety. International Rescue are well-liked, even by criminals. Probably the 'save everybody' thing they've got going on.

“Did you come to New York specifically to visit Tracy Industries?” Daniel asks. “Because that’s what it looks like.”

He calls up White’s financial records. According to them, White had taken a direct coach from his hometown, Fort Worth, and made his way to a small hostel in Lower Manhattan. Within an hour of arriving, White had headed off to Wall Street via the subway, and then bought a cup of takeout coffee from a vendor near Tracy Industries about twenty minutes before Tracy arrived. 

Daniel sighs, calls up the footage from the CCTV camera overlooking the tiny plaza across the street from Tracy Industries. White had loitered there with his coffee, before heading over to Tracy Industries as Tracy’s car pulled up.   

“Look,” Daniel tries again. Time to play Good Cop. Show White a naive, easily-manipulated officer who still believes in the goodness of humanity. “You waited outside Tracy Industries for nearly twenty minutes. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you waited because you planned to kill Mr Tracy.” Daniel leans forward. “So help me out, man. What were you really waiting for?”

White lifts his eyes, the blue from the projection reflecting across his irises. His mouth twists. 

“You don’t have to answer that,” Hartman tells her client. Her posture is loose— not relaxed, but not tense either. Maybe she doesn’t expect him to say anything. 

White says nothing, but he's still looking at Daniel. That's a start.

Maybe it's time to change tack a little. 

“Why Scott?” Daniel asks. “Out of all the people in the world, why did you go after Scott Tracy? You had to know it was a bad idea, right?” 

If the motive is somehow related to White’s firing, it would make more sense for White to target someone at that place of work, Grafton Construction. That’s the way those kinds of cases normally go, and Tracy’s involvement in White’s job is tenuous at best— he’d paid Grafton Construction to build a new factory and that’s about all. 

The motive might be related to International Rescue— everybody knows someone who knows someone who’s encountered them before. But public opinion is almost entirely positive, and Daniel hasn’t found anything to connect White with any disgruntled ex-rescuees. 

What else is there? Tracy is a celebrity of sorts, so that might be it. But he’s a pretty unassuming one, largely known for being very rich and doing a lot of charity work. The worst scandals Daniel’s been able to find aren’t really scandals at all: several news articles questioning Tracy’s credentials in taking over his missing father’s company in the wake of his disappearance, and a handful of British tabloids theorising that Tracy is actually Lady Creighton-Ward’s secret boyfriend. And White’s social media history doesn’t indicate any kind of hatred or obsession directed at Tracy, either. 

“They were supposed to listen,” White whispers, his voice hoarse in the way that only comes from disuse. 

“What?” Hartman asks, blinking rapidly. Maybe she's shocked at hearing her client speak.

“Who was supposed to listen?” Daniel presses.

“You don’t need to answer any of his questions,” Hartman interjects. 

White is silent again.

“Were they supposed to listen to you? Someone else?” Daniel tries again. 

No response. 

“What were you going to tell them?” 

White shakes his head. 

“Doesn’t matter,” he whispers. 

“Everything matters,” Daniel replies. “Every piece of information, no matter how small, can help us out here. What were you going to tell them?”

White does not respond. His eyes are fixed on his clasped hands again.

Ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty. 

Silence. 

Daniel lets out a heavy sigh. Damn it. He'd been so close, and now White's all clammed up again.

“I think we’re done here,” Hartman says. 

Chapter Text

Virgil’s alarm goes off at five AM, which is not a time that should exist the morning after a Top Gun marathon. The original nineteen-eighties movie, followed by the twenties sequel, plus the remake trilogy that’d been released in the mid-forties. More than ten hours of fighter jet action and nineteenth-century military slang– excruciating in Gordon’s book. There should have been more submarines.

"What's wrong with you?" Gordon groans, spotting the bright LED numbers on the clock on the bedside cabinet. It's still dark outside, the only light source in the room being a dim lamp set into the wall near the door. Five AM is a time of day that should only exist when cool stuff is happening, like marine research or waiting up to see the sunrise.

Virgil mumbles something incoherent, but makes no effort to move or turn off said alarm, even though he's at the very edge of the franken-bed and could totally reach. The cheery bleeping noise just continues, emanating ominously from where Virgil's phone lies on the carpet. 

"Come on, man, it's your alarm," Gordon mutters. "You could at least get up and turn it off."

"He can't," John replies, rising from the couch near the TV. He's already fully-dressed in his favourite brown plaid shirt and a pair of jeans, which means he's been awake for a while. If he fell asleep at all, that is. "You know Virgil. He can't function unless there's an emergency or there's coffee." 

"Emergency?" Alan yawns, disentangling himself from the pile of blankets between Gordon and Scott.

"There's no emergency. Go back to sleep, Virgil's just being insane," Gordon tells him. 

Alan shoots him a withering glare. 

"I would if I could," he says, and then the awful ringtone stops. 

Virgil, now sitting upright, phone in his hands, squints at Gordon.

"You're mean.” 

" You're mean," Gordon leans over to savagely jab Virgil in the ribs, doing his best to avoid disturbing the conspicuously Scott-shaped lump under the blankets. "You set an alarm for five AM on a Sunday ."

"Flight's at nine," Virgil says, as though that explains anything. 

"The airfield is, like, an hour away."

Virgil nods. 

“Uh-huh,” he mumbles, as though that explained anything at all. 

“Okay, well, I’m going back to sleep,” Gordon flops back down, screwing his eyes tightly shut. 

“No, you’re not,” John replies, suddenly leaning over him, dragging him upright again. He’s surprisingly strong for a guy who spends eighty percent of his time in zero-g. “We’re not having another Honolulu.”

“That wasn’t my fault, and you know it!” Gordon protests, batting at John’s arms. He opens his eyes wide, rolls them dramatically. “Fine, fine, I’m up!” 

“It was totally your fault,” Alan says, shimmying off the end of the franken-bed. “You’re so lucky Grandma only grounded you.”

“It wasn’t that bad!” 

“It was absolutely that bad,” John replies, with a withering glare. “Get up, get dressed, and get packed. We’re leaving at seven.”

“That’s two hours away!” 

“One hour forty-five. Stop talking.” John turns his head to the door. “Alan, don’t eat all the chocolate cereal, I want some too.”

“No promises,” Alan saunters out of the room with a yawn. John mutters something under his breath before following, shooting Gordon a warning glare before disappearing. Gordon glares right back until John leaves his line of sight, then sighs and stretches. 

It’s going to be a long day, and not just because of the stupid-early wake-up call. They’ve got a three-and-a-bit hour flight to the county airport about forty minutes east of their hometown. Then when they get to the farmhouse, on the northern edge of town, Gordon’s on grocery duty with John. Which is much better than being on luggage duty, because it means he doesn’t have to lug a bunch of heavy suitcases into the house- that’s Virgil’s job. 

Grandma will be showing Scott around the house he’s lived most of his life in. Alan’s been pretty eager to help Grandma with that. He’s been weirdly enthusiastic about the prospect of teaching Scott stuff– maybe because he’s spent his life getting smothered by four big brothers, and he’s excited to finally return the favour? It’s hard to tell. 

All Gordon knows is that he’s honestly kinda jealous of Alan’s optimism about the whole ‘total amnesia’ thing. Gordon had been speechless when Grandma broke the news–  Scott not really knowing that he’s Scott, much less his family, is maybe even worse than any of Gordon’s previous fears about caring for his brother. Alan had just tugged on Gordon’s sleeve and repeated all the stuff his brothers had said the day after the attack: “It’s okay. We’ll help him out for as long as it takes, even if that’s forever.”

And here they are. 

"Wake up, sleepyhead," Virgil prods the blanket beside him until Scott emerges, bleary-eyed and messy-haired. "Got a big day ahead of us." 

Scott looks miserable, struggling to lever himself upright in a way Gordon hasn’t seen since Scott was in high school. Since his GDF stint, Scott’s always been annoyingly prompt in the morning. He’s on his feet three seconds after his alarm, even when he’s fighting off the ‘flu. It’s automatic at this point– Kayo sometimes jokes that Scott’s not awake until he’s halfway down the hall, on the way to the kitchen or his launch chute. 

This is just another thing that’s wrong.

“H’dache,” Scott croaks.

“I’ll get a patch for you. Think a shower would help, or do you just want coffee?” Virgil asks. 

Neither. Scott always starts his day with cool water. A quick run or swim, then a shower, and then coffee and breakfast.

Scott stares blankly at the wall for a moment, blinking slowly. 

“Coffee,” he manages. 

“Okay,” Virgil waves at Gordon. “Hey, can you–?”

“Already on it,” Gordon replies, rising to his feet. He heads out to the kitchenette, where Alan and John have managed to democratically divide the last of the chocolate cereal, and starts the coffee machine. 

“I already put in fresh grounds,” John says, as Gordon opens the lid. So he has. 

“Huh. Thanks, man.”

Gordon ends up making the coffee the way Scott actually enjoys it, when he’s drinking for comfort rather than his daily fix. Enough sugar to make the liquid thick and syrupy, with a generous amount of cream turning it a soft beige colour. By the time Virgil leads Scott out of the bedroom- unshaven but fully-dressed in his usual athletic wear, a couple pain-patches visible on his neck- the mug is sitting on the island accompanied by two slices of thickly-smeared peanut butter toast.

“Where’s mine?” Virgil asks.

“Where’s my lie-in?” Gordon replies, raising an eyebrow as he sips from his own cup. He snickers. “I’m kidding, it’s next to the coffee pot. Actually, maybe you should just drink from the coffee pot. They don’t have cups big enough for you here.”

By the time Grandma emerges from her room, dragging her suitcase behind her, her grandsons have all eaten. They even managed to get the kitchen area kinda clean, most of the cups and stuff in the dishwasher, and nearly all of the cushions and throws returned to their rightful places. 

“Gonna need your help with the franken-bed,” Virgil tells Gordon, after Alan and John go off to finish their packing. Scott glances up from his near-empty mug. 

“Anything I can do to help?” he asks, which might be the least Scott-like thing he’s said or done so far, even worse than the slow wake-up or last night’s verdict on the original Top Gun: ‘it’s fine’. He should be on his feet already, ordering his brothers about like the bossy commander he is. Maybe this is why Virgil wanted them up so early, knowing that their preparations would take much longer without Scott’s crisp delegation.

“It’s fine,” Virgil tells him. “You just relax and drink your coffee. We’re almost done.”

Scott doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t argue– the second least Scott-like thing he’s done, Scott always argues– and Grandma swoops in, maybe to spare them any more amnesia-induced awkwardness. 

“Scott!” she slings an arm around him. “Come sit with me. We have to check the weather for our flight.”

They don’t. Virgil’s already got everything planned out– one of Kayo’s security guys is flying them to Kansas, and he’ll have checked all the relevant reports and stuff a billion times over, for fear of their sister's wrath. Scott should know that. But he doesn’t, so he obediently stands and lets Grandma lead him to the couch. 

Gordon shoots a furtive glance at Virgil.

“He’s going to stop being like that soon, right?” he asks, under his breath. 

Virgil doesn’t reply. He just continues to look at the living area, where Grandma and Scott are switching on the TV, his mouth pressed into a thin line. 

“Right?” Gordon presses, his stomach sinking. 

Virgil shakes his head.

“I don’t know,” he mutters. There’s a pause, the air suddenly as heavy as the ocean Gordon loves so much, and just as crushing. Then Virgil taps Gordon on the shoulder, heading back to the main bedroom. “You. Franken-bed. Help me. We’ve got less than an hour before the driver comes to pick us up."

Gordon sighs, turning on his heel to follow his brother.

"FAB," he replies.

Chapter Text

They get to the airport in time, but it’s a close call. And, just like that one time in Honolulu, it’s all Gordon’s fault. 

“Stop glaring at me! We made it in time, didn’t we?” 

“Two minutes before our scheduled departure isn’t ‘on time’ in the aviation world, Gordon,” John replies, through gritted teeth. At least their private plane departed on time. He flicks his wrist, moves a holographic bishop piece across their chessboard. Gordon stares at the piece as it moves, quiet for a moment.

“Hey, are you cheating again?” Gordon raises one eyebrow, squinting accusingly at John across the holographic board. “You’re getting EOS to calculate your next move or something, aren’t you?”

“Asking EOS for her thoughts isn’t cheating,” John replies.

“She’s a supercomputer .”

“She’s a person .”

“Are they always like this?” Scott whispers, tapping Virgil on the arm. 

“Unfortunately.”

Scott nods, casting a worried glance over Gordon and John. Yet another not-quite-right thing about this flight. Normally Scott insists on piloting, complete with cheesy announcements over Tracy One’s tannoy. Whenever he’s not allowed to pilot– normally due to eyestrain or sleeplessness– Scott always shifts about restlessly in his seat, commenting on the pilot’s performance and how he’d do everything differently. Today, he’s quiet and still, scrolling through his semi-unblocked tablet. 

According to EOS’ sporadic updates in John’s earpiece, Scott’s mostly been alternating between puzzle games and self-googling. The latter is not a pastime the real Scott has ever indulged in, certainly not since Dad passed away. The media shitstorm that had ensued after the Zero-X had been hellish, and to John’s knowledge Scott had only ever looked himself up once. The night after Dad had been officially declared dead, after the private memorial service. It’s not a night John likes to remember.

Maybe this change in behaviour is a good thing, though. Maybe if this fake Scott learns enough about who he’s supposed to be, the real Scott might somehow come back to them. Wasn’t that the gist of what Doctor Anwar said? Isn’t that why they’re going to Kansas in the first place? To help him learn about himself, to help him remember everything he’s lost? 

John’s not much of an optimist. He's not like his brothers. He’s a realist. He’s the man that runs calculations on survival probability on a daily basis. He's the one who listens to dying people in their final moments and reassures them that they're not alone. He knows that good things don't just happen. 

It would be nice if Scott miraculously got better. 

It would be really, really nice. Like one of those cheesy feel-good movies Grandma likes watching (and Kayo pretends that she hates, but John's seen her Netflix history). But John knows better than to believe, or even really hope. Scott might get a little better, but he won’t ever really be himself again. The Scott they all know and love is dead. 

He’s dead. 

Scott’s dead. 

“Hello?” Gordon waves an arm in front of John’s face. “You know it’s your turn, right?”

John nods. The air feels very thin, doesn’t quite fill his lungs. He looks at the chess board. All the pieces look small and insignificant. His heart beats harder, the low roar of his own blood rushing through his skull so loudly he can’t even hear Gordon’s annoyed tapping on the table between them. 

John picks a piece at random– a pawn– and shoves it forward with trembling fingers. Too late, he realises it’s an illegal move.

Does it matter? Scott’s dead. 

Their brother is dead and they’re just sitting here, pretending he’s not, playing a game that’ll be over and forgotten in just a few minutes. 

John blinks, the board suddenly blurry. Then there’s a warm hand on his shoulder, a pair of honey-brown eyes meeting his gaze, Gordon’s eyebrows drawn low into a worried frown.

“Are you even listening?” Gordon asks, voice low. “Dude, are you okay?”

John glances around the cabin before answering. Alan’s playing one of his video games, Grandma and Virgil are deep in hushed conversation, and Scott– the fake Scott– is scrolling through his tablet again, a lollipop stick jutting out between his lips. Nobody’s paying them much attention. 

John shakes his head, forces himself to take a deep breath. Then another. He presses his hands against his eyes for a moment, until his heartbeat feels like it’s back to normal and the air feels more real.

“I hate this,” he mutters. “I hate it.”

“Yeah,” Gordon exhales, nodding slowly. “Me too.”

It's hard to tell whether he means just the chess game, today's schedule, or... well, everything.

“I hate New York,” John adds. Too many people, all of them wanting something he doesn’t know how to give. Gordon would have been a better choice for the CEO stuff– he knows people, he gets them, doesn’t struggle to connect the way that John does. 

Gordon doesn’t say anything, just continues looking at him for a few seconds. 

“You want to go star-gazing tonight?” he asks. “Weather reports say it’s gonna be clear skies. We have to go to the store later anyway, might as well get some cocoa and snacks.”

John blinks.

“You hate star-gazing,” he says. 

“I don’t hate it, I just don’t like it,” Gordon replies, waving a hand. “It’s boring to me. Same way coral reefs and cuttlefish migration patterns are boring to you. I was just thinking that we don’t spend much time together. You’re always on Five, and now with all the work stuff… we haven’t hung out for a while. No talks on the beach. I missed that.”

Long hours sitting on damp sand in the dead of night, warm breezes carrying salt into their lungs and hair, the sound of waves crashing against the shoreline lulling them both into a sense of security and peace. Deep talks about anything and everything, quiet moments that could never happen any other time, with John staring up at the sky and Gordon across the sparkling void of the sea.

Those conversations had been a lifeline for John after the Zero-X. And while Gordon’s never said it aloud, John suspects that they’d helped him in turn after his release from the hospital.

“So you want deep talks on the cornfield instead?” John asks. 

Gordon laughs, shaking his head. 

“No, let’s do it by the pond. It’s not the same without the water. Unless you want to sneak over to the creek on old Macintyre’s property, but he gets real tetchy this time of year.”

“Because you used to sneak out there with your friends when you were a senior and kept leaving empty beer-cans along the trails.”

“Hey, that wasn’t me!” Gordon exclaims. “I’d never litter! I always told my friends to clean up after themselves. That is slander, John! Slander, I tell you!”

John snickers. It’s easy to wind Gordon up, and Gordon’s good at returning the favour. He always has been– they used to fight constantly as kids. John remembers outright despising his little brother at several points, mostly due to incidents involving broken telescopes or torn books. But as they’ve both grown and changed and matured with the years, the teasing that had been the bane of John’s existence as a child has become a playful, comforting pastime for the both of them as adults. 

“That’s what they all say,” John replies, raising one eyebrow. “Okay, squid boy. Stargazing at the pond. Maybe this time you’ll learn a thing or two.”

“Me? Learn?” Gordon gasps, mock-affronted. “Okay, it could totally happen. But first…”

Gordon gestures at the holographic chess board. 

“...you need to learn how to play chess. Like, seriously, call EOS or something, because that is not how you move a pawn.”

Chapter Text

To Sally, home will always be Kansas. 

Flat cornfields and meadows as far as the eye can see, the smell of grass and hay and rich, fertile soil. A familiar town, a tight-knit community, four distinct seasons. Her sons helping her with yardwork and cooking. Curling up in front of the fire on a winter's night, sipping camomile tea from the pretty cup that one of her daughters-in-law once gave her. Sitting with her beloved Grant on the porch on a summer afternoon, waiting for their oldest grandsons to come home from elementary school while Lucy and the youngest were napping.

It's not that Sally dislikes the island- far from it, it's a peaceful tropical paradise and the warmth is good for her arthritis. It’s where she lives, yes, and she likes it. But when she thinks of the word ‘home’, she thinks of the farmhouse she and Grant bought a few weeks after marrying. The house she’s spent most of her life in. The house that she raised her sons in, and helped raise her grandsons in after that.

Sally takes a deep breath– the air is cool, the scent of grass and pollen mingling with the faint smell of fertiliser from the neighbours, who’ve been renting the outer fields since Grant passed. The house looks the same as it always did, though everything is a little newer and cleaner– the siding is a bright ivory colour, with pretty blue trim around the windows and the doors, and the drainpipes and gables and the porch painted the same shade of IR blue. 

The house is south-facing, with five bedrooms– six, if one counts the office in the basement– split over four floors. The land immediately surrounding the house includes a barn, greenhouse, and several corn silos to the west, a workshop to the east, and a figure-of-eight swimming pool set into the back patio. The groundskeeper Scott employs is even nice enough to take care of Sally’s flower garden, even though it’s not technically part of his job. Small white and yellow flowers bloom near the edge of the driveway, interspersed among the greenery. 

Beside the workshop lies a garage, the door open, where Sally can see John and Gordon heatedly discussing something– judging by the gesturing and pointing, they’re probably bickering over which car they ought to take into town for their grocery trip.

It feels good to be out here again. They come back every year for Thanksgiving, spent with Sally’s younger children– Adam, Frank and Madison– and their families, though usually it’s only Alan that stays with them for the whole holiday. The second a ‘situation’ crops up, John hides himself away to run mission control while Scott (often accompanied by Virgil and/or Gordon) sneaks off to fix it. 

Sometimes Sally misses the days before International Rescue had been reinstated–  the older boys had all been busy, but they’d been able to take a day or two off for the holidays, and they’d had regular, scheduled downtime from their duties. She can’t deny that the world is a much better place with International Rescue running again, but she’s not so sure it’s better for her boys’ health. They’re all exhausted these days– and not just because of what’s happened to Scott. 

Virgil is perhaps the best at hiding his exhaustion and distress. He smiles and jokes with the driver Kayo arranged for them as he unpacks the minivan. He’s constantly checking in on everybody else, exactly as Lucy used to do when the boys were much younger. But Virgil can’t hide from his grandmother: she’s seen the way his face falls when Scott says or does something not-quite-right or when he doesn’t like what the doctors say. She held him in her arms when he was just two days old and watched him grow up. Some people say that eyes are the window to the soul, but in Virgil’s case, it’s his eyebrows. She can read his expressions a mile away. Well, maybe half a mile– her eyes aren’t what they used to be.

Gordon and John both probably come across as well-rested and calm to strangers, but Sally knows them too well to be fooled. She can see the tension Gordon carries in his shoulders and back, where that awful scar bisects his body, even though the boy’s been all but bouncing off the walls this past two weeks. Gordon is a real talker, but never to this degree– Sally’s pretty sure he’s been talking non-stop, save for when he needs to sleep or eat. John is Gordon’s opposite in every way: every movement is too careful, too considered. He hasn’t tripped over his own feet once since Scott’s attack, even though he’s normally clumsy, and even more so when freshly Earthside. Worse, he’s even quieter than normal, failing to completely mask his facial expressions. The last time Sally saw either of them like this was… well, it was eight years ago. This time, though, things will be better. She’s sure of it. Jeff might be gone, but Scott’s still here, even if he’s a little different. 

“Oh, man, there’s so much cool stuff here! I don’t know where to start!” Alan exclaims, as though he hasn’t been quietly planning this tour since Sally first mentioned returning to Kansas. 

Alan isn’t as good at hiding his feelings as his brothers, though he’s unnervingly good at it considering his age. Sally doesn’t want to think about why that is. He’s been plastering on a big smile and trying to seem happy and cheerful, presumably so that nobody worries about him. It might have even worked, except that Alan keeps letting his brave face fall whenever he thinks he’s alone, leaving just a lethargic little boy worried about the future of his family. And Sally can’t exactly blame him. She’s worried, too. She just hopes she’s better at hiding it than the boys are.

“Maybe we should start with taking a breath, huh?” Scott suggests, almost sounding like himself. He glances back at the minivan, where Virgil and Kayo’s driver are getting the luggage out. “You sure you don’t need a hand with that?”

“I’m sure,” Virgil replies, without looking up. “I don’t think you have a spare hand to lend me, anyway. Go get your grand tour, okay?”

Scott nods, clearly uncomfortable, and starts following Alan. The steps up to the porch give him a little trouble– he forgoes his crutches and just leans heavily on the bannister– as Alan jams the front door open with the brightly-painted doorstop Virgil made in his extracurricular woodwork classes when he was fifteen. 

Alan stops in the entrance hall, next to the stairwell, and starts talking a mile a minute.

“Okay, so here’s the hallway! The coats live over here, and shoes go over here. You can wear shoes inside, but only if they’re clean. If they’re muddy or oily or something, you have to take them off and put them over here and the little cleaning bots will take care of it. Okay?”

“Okay,” Scott replies, sounding bemused, and Alan continues.

“Great! And here’s, like, one of those little guest restrooms? It’s just a toilet and sink. There’s not, like, a lock or anything, but the rule is that you always have to knock and wait for an answer if the door’s closed. It’s the same for all the other bathrooms. Knock and wait. And this door leads down to the basement. It used to be, like, a fallout shelter or something, but now there’s an office and den and stuff and it’s really cool. John has, like, a billion board games down there.” 

Alan pauses for breath, ducking into the room on the left.

“And here’s the living room, it’s basically exactly what you’d expect. The big couch is my favourite, but you always take this chair here. We’ve got an old-fashioned TV downstairs, mounted on the wall, but up here it’s one of the cool holographic ones, just like at home!” Alan snatches up the remote control on the table. “So, this button turns it on…” 

Scott leans heavily on the chair Alan pointed at. He nods along with Alan’s explanations, but he’s frowning, swaying just a little, and Sally can’t help but wonder exactly how much information is actually sinking in. Alan’s a thoughtful and enthusiastic kid, but he’s also a fast talker– almost as bad as Gordon– and if Sally hadn’t lived here so long, she’d probably have trouble remembering everything he just said. And while Scott’s just as smart as he always was, he’s also barely awake, having dozed off during the last twenty minutes of their journey here. And that’s to say nothing of the concussion he’s still suffering from. 

Sally steps forward and lays a hand on Alan’s shoulder. 

“Let’s just stick with the basics for now,” she says. “We’ve got a whole two weeks here. There’s no rush. You can give him a more in-depth tour tomorrow, when we’ve all had a chance to rest up a bit, okay?”

Alan visibly deflates at that, but he nods anyway. 

“Yes, Grandma.”

Scott doesn’t say anything, but he looks noticeably relieved. And that’s the most not-Scott thing, really– the not saying or doing anything, because he doesn’t know how he fits in or how he’s supposed to behave. She’s only seen him over-think like this once before. In the aftermath of the Zero-X, when a twenty-year-old Scott was trying to fill his dad’s shoes (and failing, because despite their many similarities, he and Jeff were different people with different personalities and different styles of leadership). 

Scott had been so tired back then, a ghost of his regular self. Hesitant. His self-confidence had been in shreds, between the cut-throat nature of business and the cruelty of the tabloid spotlight. Sally had thought– had hoped, really– that she’d never see Scott like that again. But maybe if Scott starts feeling more comfortable soon, she won’t. He doesn’t need to put on an act with his family, not like he did at Tracy Industries or with the media. He just needs to relax. To say what he feels, and to do as he pleases. As far as Sally can tell, the core of his personality hasn’t changed. Scott’s still the kind-hearted, intelligent young man he’s always been. He still likes math puzzles and sports, with a weakness for sweets and pretty girls. He’s still just a little too competitive and a little too stubborn and still has trouble standing still. He hasn’t changed at all, aside from not really remembering who he is. The sooner Scott realises that, the better.

Sally smiles, ruffles Alan’s hair, and herds her boys toward the stairs. 

“Let’s start with the bedroom,” she says. “Scott, there’s a stairlift if you need it. The button here calls the chair down, and the arrow buttons on the arm are self-explanatory. There’s another call-button at the top.”

“I’m fine,” Scott insists, shifting his crutches to one arm again as he grasps the bannister with a white-knuckle grip. 

“I know, but just in case,” Sally agrees, following him up the staircase. Fortunately it’s straight up, with no bends. “Alan?”

“On it!” Alan bounds quickly up to the landing, scampering straight to Scott’s room. It’s the smallest in the house by far, and had been a storage room until they converted the attic about two decades ago. “Here you are! Your room!” 

The walls are alternately painted a pale blue and a dark grey, though Sally remembers it being almost entirely plastered with posters and airplane schematics when Scott was younger. The bed takes up most of the available space, with a small dresser, laundry hamper and standing closet at the foot. A tiny bedside cabinet sits between the bed and door, a small mirror hanging above it. A couple shelves have been installed next to the window, mostly holding framed photos of their family and Scott’s high school trophies. There’s a small model of a fighter jet suspended from the ceiling above the bed– the same type Jeff flew during the Global Conflict.

Scott lingers in the doorway, not really moving. Alan sits on the bed, excitedly bouncing in place. 

“Well?” Alan asks. “What do you think?” 

“It’s cosy,” Scott says, after a moment. “I like it.”

“It’s a little small, but you’re the only one who never had to share… except Grandma,” Alan says. 

“I did my time sharing a room,” Sally answers. “Your Grandpa Grant snored even worse than Gordon.”

And she’d give almost anything to be jerked awake at God-knows-what hour by Grant’s awful snoring again. She’d complained endlessly about it when he was alive, but after his death she’d hardly been able to sleep in that too-big, too cold bed in that too-quiet room.

“Worse than Gordon?” Alan gasps, eyes wide with shock. “How’d you ever manage to sleep?” 

“With earplugs,” Sally says, and then she lays a hand on Scott’s shoulder. “The only thing you need to remember is that in this house, if you need some privacy, close your door. If you’re happy for someone to come in, keep it ajar. If you want to go into someone else’s room, knock first.”

“Like the bathroom,” Scott nods. “Okay. I think I got it.”

“Good,” Sally says. “Now, you’ve got some clothes and things here, but I’m not sure how much of it you’ll be able to wear. We can go through everything tomorrow. In the meantime, Virgil’s going to bring– oh, hello.” 

“Hey,” Virgil answers, having appeared behind her as if on cue, Scott’s duffel in his arms. Behind him, Kayo’s driver deposits a couple of suitcases in the hallway, before heading back downstairs. He raises an eyebrow at Alan, raises the bag over his head. “Think fast!”

“No fair!” Alan squeals, catching the duffel easily. “I’m an easy target!”

“The easiest,” Virgil confirms, with a smile. “Let me know when you guys are done with the tour, and then I’ll order in dinner.”

“Aren’t Gordon and John getting food?” Alan asks. 

“Do you think those two can stop bickering long enough to get here before sundown?” Virgil replies. “Anyway, we’re all exhausted. I know I don’t want to cook, after getting up so early and travelling for so long. Do you guys really want to cook?”

“I’m sure I can whip up some sandwiches or something…” Sally murmurs, and Alan immediately bounces to his feet, leaving Scott’s bag on the bed. 

“It’s okay, Grandma! Virgil’s right, we should all rest, let’s get take-out!” Alan babbles. “Do they still have that Mexican place in town? That’s Scott’s favourite, right? We should get that!”

Sally can’t help but laugh. Her boys are adorable. 

“What do you think, Scott?” she asks. 

“Uh… If I like it, then sure,” Scott says, with a shrug. 

“I’ll call them after I finish with the bags, see if I can get Gordon and John to pick it up after they finish their shopping…” Virgil mutters. 

“I’ll help you!” Alan exclaims, and he dashes down the stairs, his voice echoing off the walls: “Call the place, call the place!”

“Thank you, dear,” Sally smiles, and she pats Scott on the shoulder. “I’d better show you the bathroom, at least. Come on.”

Sally probably doesn’t need to explain anything, since all the doors are open, save Lucille and Jeff’s room. But Scott seems to relax a little when someone else is talking, so she shuffles down the hall with him, squeezing his shoulder gently as she speaks.

“Here’s the main bathroom. If you want to use the shower or bath, remember to turn on the extractor fan. Now, I’m at the very end of the hall. If you need anything at all, just knock. Remember, I’ve seen it all,” she says. “The closed room here belonged to your parents. You’re free to go in there if you want, just make sure you leave everything as you found it. And over here is John and Virgil…”

Chapter Text

He’s aware that someone is nearby even before he fully wakes. A hand touches his shoulder. A low voice speaks, and the dull ache in his head worsens, jerking him fully awake.

“Scott, it’s time to get up.”

Scott cracks his eyes open to unfamiliar, sun-lit walls. 

No, not unfamiliar, he realises. This is the room from yesterday. Kansas, not New York. 

He props himself up against the headrest and does his best to ignore the nausea rising in his throat, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with clumsy fingers.The bedside clock reads seven-thirty. Virgil’s leaning over him, fully-dressed and ready for the day.

“The shower is free right now. You need a hand getting ready?”

“‘m fine,” Scott mutters.

“Well, if you decide you do, just shout,” Virgil says, crossing to the other side of the bedroom. He opens the closet, starts rummaging through the hangers. “There’s a towel and robe and stuff all ready for you in the shower room. I’ll find something you can wear— I got some new clothes ordered for you while we were in New York, so you’ll have more choices tomorrow.”

“Thanks.”

It takes a minute to force himself out of his warm, comfortable bed, and Scott leans heavily on the wall as he stumbles to the door. 

A warm hand lands on his arm, steadying him. 

“You sure you don’t need a hand?” Virgil asks. “Maybe you should use your crutches.”

“The bathroom is right there,” Scott gestures at the door. He can literally see the toilet and shower cubicle, just a couple steps away. 

“Well, if you’re sure…” Virgil doesn’t look happy, but he doesn’t push it, either. He tilts his head, frowning slightly. “How’s your head? Still aching?”

“A little.”

Virgil digs in his pocket, producing a painkiller patch. He peels the tape off in one quick movement, then smooths it on a patch of skin just below Scott’s right ear. It’s uncomfortably cold.

“It’ll take a minute to kick in, so be careful not to wash it off while you’re in there,” Virgil says, before letting Scott go. “And don’t forget, if you need something, just call for me. I’ll be right here. Between International Rescue and having four brothers, I think I’ve seen everything.”

Someone else said that a while back. Grandma, maybe? 

Scott nods, regrets it immediately, and stumbles to the bathroom. 

Just as Virgil promised, there’s a fluffy, blue towel hanging on the rack next to the shower. His toothbrush (also blue) and electric razor (also also blue) sit next to the sink, and a plane-patterned bathrobe hangs on the back of the door. The extractor fan is already whirring, the tiny hopper window above the toilet cracked open just enough to let some fresh air in.

“Temperature’s already set,” Virgil calls, helpfully. “The dial in the middle controls the water and pressure. Right to start, left to stop.”

“Thanks.”

Scott closes the door. Just like the hospital bathroom, there’s no lock. He’s not sure he likes that. But someone said something about knocking the other day, right?  So it's probably fine.

Scott starts with his teeth. That’s the most important thing, isn’t it? He accidentally squeezes a little too much paste out, has to rinse the tube cap clean once he flicks it closed. His hand-eye co-ordination still sucks, but it’s not as bad as last week. He sticks the brush in his mouth, turns the motor on, and glares at his reflection. 

The man in the mirror is still frustratingly unfamiliar, even though he shouldn’t be. It’s his face. His own face. Yes, his hair is greasy and he’s got the remnants of bruises clustered around his eyes. But it’s still him, isn’t it?

His eyes. His brows. His cheekbones. His nose. His mouth. His dimples. His jawline. 

And somehow it still feels like he’s staring at a stranger. 

Scott scowls at himself, before stopping to spit foam and rinse. The toothbrush goes back in its matching blue stand, and he picks up the shaving foam instead. It feels weird against his skin, cold and tingly, before being scraped away by the electric razor. 

Once the leftover foam and hair has been rinsed away, he frowns at himself again. Intimidating. 

He tries a smile instead, watching the dimples deepen under his skin. Is it charming or sleazy? He can’t tell. He curls his lip, annoyed. And then, mostly because the weight of his own gaze feels too heavy, he childishly sticks his tongue out at himself and puts the razor back where Virgil put it. 

He strips quickly, stuffing his sleepwear into the laundry hamper near the door, before stepping into the shower. The water is already hot by the time it sprays over him, just like at the hospital and the hotel, and he’s not sure why that’s so surprising. Does his normal shower take a few moments to warm up?

Scott grabs a sponge and the closest bottle of shower gel— something green and mint-scented— and starts scrubbing down. He very carefully does not think about how his body is almost as unfamiliar as his face, with long, lean limbs that feel somehow too long and too lean, skin that feels far too pale, speckled with moles that he scarcely remembers, and hair that somehow feels too much and yet not enough in all the places he finds it. Everything is unfamiliar and not-quite-right.

Scott groans, frustrated, and rinses the sponge off before shoving it in the little plastic basket on the wall. Don’t think of pink elephants, he tells himself. 

Shampoo next. The blue bottle will do. He massages the bubbles through his hair, grazing his fingers lightly across the swollen part of his skull, where the bone is still mostly broken underneath. It still hurts, no matter how gentle he tries to be, and the water is just as bad. But the painkillers seem to have worked— his head only hurts when he touches it. 

Once the water is turned off, he gropes for the towel and hastily dries himself off, the air suddenly too cool on his skin, leaving him a little dizzy. At least the nausea has mostly passed. He pads to the hamper, throwing the damp towel in there, then shrugs on the blue bathrobe. 

Nobody is upstairs when Scott emerges from the bathroom, cool water dripping uncomfortably down his neck. Or at least, he can’t see anybody. There’s muffled music coming from Gordon and Alan’s room, the door closed, but it looks like the other rooms are empty.

Scott’s relieved, though he knows he probably shouldn’t be. His family are nice. They’re kind and they’re eager to help, but at the same time, that niceness is… well, it’s overwhelming. 

When he staggers into his room, there are clothes set out neatly on his bed, just as Virgil promised. Navy sweatpants and a matching zipped hoodie, a light grey tee, socks, underwear, and a pair of dark slip-on sneakers. 

It only takes a couple minutes to dress, finger-comb his damp hair, and grab his crutches. By the time he shuffles out of the hall, the muffled music has stopped, and the hallway is no longer empty. Gordon’s at the top of the stairs, waiting for the stairlift to reach the upper landing. The sound of Scott’s crutches attracts his little brother’s attention, and he glances over his shoulder, face breaking into a wide grin at the sight of Scott. 

“Morning, sleepyhead!” Gordon greets him, then gestures at the stairlift. “You want in?”

“Uh… no, I’m good,” Scott replies. The stairlift comes to a halt next to Gordon.

“Suit yourself,” Gordon shrugs, and he sits down. “Ooh, this is even more comfortable than I remember!” 

“Are you supposed to be using that? I thought it was Grandma’s.”

Gordon snorts, then bursts into laughter. 

“Aw, man, that’s a good one! ‘Grandma’s stairlift’— don’t let her hear you say that,” Gordon wipes a tear from his eye, then shakes his head as he draws in a deep, calming breath. “No, this is mine. Long story. But, uh, point is you can totally use this if you want. And I’m totally gonna use it ‘cause we don’t have one in Grand Roca and this is supposed to be a vacation. I mean, who climbs stairs on their vacation? Not me.”

And with that, Gordon grins again, giving Scott a thumbs-up as he slowly descends the stairs. 

Scott shifts his left crutch to his right side, holding the bannister with a white-knuckle grip. Slowly, he makes his way down, trying very hard to remember where his feet are at all given times, to keep leaning on the bannister. Gordon waits at the bottom, though he at least has the courtesy to pretend that he’s looking out of the window next to the door, rather than hovering in case Scott falls. 

Scott only stumbles once, on the final step, and Gordon practically moves faster than light, steadying him with a strength Gordon doesn’t look like he should possess. 

“I gotcha,” Gordon grins, ever-cheerful, and then he practically skips down the hall to the kitchen. It’s almost the same as it was yesterday: all shiny white cabinets and dark stone counters, with a large table in the centre of the room, though the curtains have been drawn now that it’s light outside, revealing the luscious greenery outside. Everything is newer than the fuzzy snapshot from his memory, but it’s still recognisable as the same room. The only thing missing is the woman— Mom, presumably— and the tree outside.

Everybody else is there already: John’s reading a tablet at one end of the table, a half-eaten bagel and a cup of coffee in front of him. Alan is munching on sugary cereal, while Grandma sits next to him with a bowl of granola and some coffee. Virgil’s rummaging through the fridge, and Gordon claps Scott on the shoulder. 

“Hey, how about you sit down? I’ll get you some coffee.”

Scott does as he’s told, sliding into a chair beside John, carefully leaning his crutches against the wall behind him, so they don’t fall over. John doesn’t so much as glance up, but Grandma smiles and nods while Alan excitedly greets him, practically vibrating in his seat.

“Hey, Scott! How’s it going? You feeling any better today?” 

“Uh… yeah, a little,” Scott replies, as Gordon sets a mug filled with beige-coloured coffee in front of him. “Thanks.”

“Lemme know if you need more sugar,” Gordon replies with another cheery thumbs-up, before sitting down next to Scott. 

Scott shifts awkwardly in his chair- he still doesn't quite know how to position himself comfortably, spent ages tossing and turning last night because he couldn't figure out how he normally lies- and blows on the coffee. He takes a tentative sip. It’s not quite hot enough to scald, but it’s still hot. It tastes great, though— sweet and creamy and sweet. 

“It’s good,” Scott murmurs, and Virgil appears, setting a bowl of oatmeal in front of him. It’s drizzled with syrup and scattered with berries and nuts. There’s already a spoon sticking out of it.

“You hungry?” Virgil doesn’t wait for an answer, settling down next to Grandma with an identical bowl of oatmeal. 

“Where’s mine?” Gordon asks, with an exaggerated pout. 

“Cereal’s right there,” Virgil replies, jabbing a thumb at the counter behind him.

“You are a very cruel man, Virgil,” Gordon says, shaking his head before rising. “A very, very cruel man indeed.”

They’ve got a weird relationship, full of constant bickering. It’s hard to tell when they’re seriously disagreeing and when they’re just teasing.

“The cruellest,” Virgil agrees, digging into his oatmeal. Scott picks up his spoon, scooping some into his mouth. 

It’s oatmeal. Bland and gluey, but the syrup makes it a little more palatable. It takes a moment to scoop up a strawberry, which tastes pretty much as expected. 

Breakfast is quiet. Scott mostly tries to focus on his food, ignoring the way his family peer and glance and— in the case of Alan— outright stare at him. Even John’s gaze flickers over him from time to time. Just the same as dinner last night, as every single meal they’ve shared together. They’re watching in case he needs help, and that’s very kind of them. But it’s also very uncomfortable, and makes holding the spoon steady much more difficult than it really ought to be. 

Finally, though, the food is gone, and Scott busies himself with nursing his mug of coffee as Virgil and Grandma discuss their plans for the day— preparing for the move to Gran Roca later this month— and John starts typing on his tablet. Gordon and Alan gather all the empty crockery from the table, bickering amongst themselves as they rinse everything, stacking it all into the dishwasher next to the sink. 

It’s almost familiar— tantalisingly close to being familiar— but it’s not quite right. There’s something missing. 

“What happened to the tree?” Scott asks. He hadn’t seen it last night, when they ate dinner in here, but the curtains had been closed and he hadn’t really thought about it. 

“The tree?” Virgil asks, raising one eyebrow in confusion. 

“The apple tree. The one that used to be right outside the window. I guess it must’ve been moved or something, right?”

“Apple tree?” Grandma blinks. “Scotty, dear, I don’t think there’s ever been any kind of tree outside that window.”

“Are you sure?” Scott asks. “It used to be right there. Back when this room was all painted blue.”

Grandma frowns, tilting her head in thought.

“Could it have been a decal?” she asks. “Your mother used to decorate the windows during holidays.”

No, it hadn’t been a decal. It was a real tree. Right outside the window, where Mom used to wash the dishes, looking out across the yard.

Scott shakes his head. 

“Nevermind,” he mutters. He shouldn’t have asked. Now everything’s weird and silent and they’re all looking at him again. Even John’s paused his typing, eyeing Scott with an expression he can’t quite place. 

“It was probably just a mistake or something,” Virgil decides, because apparently he’s the one who gets to do that. “No need to worry. Doctor Anwar said your head is gonna be a little scrambled for a while, it’s fine.”

Scott grits his teeth. He didn’t make a mistake. There was a tree outside the window and now they’re all being weird about it. 

“Anyway, is there anything in particular you feel like doing today?” Virgil asks, changing the subject with as much subtlety as a stampeding elephant. “Since it’s a special day, it might be nice to do something to celebrate.”

A special day? Yes, that’s right. But what kind of special day is it? He can’t quite remember.

“Ooh, that’s right!” Alan slams the dishwasher shut, grabbing a nearby dishtowel to dry his hands. “Wait a sec, I’ve got a birthday gift for you upstairs!” 

Oh. That’s right, today is the fourth of April. His birthday. He's twenty-nine years old now.

Scott’s stomach twists uncomfortably at the thought. It’s not really his birthday, though, is it? It’s the old Scott’s birthday. And if Scott is honest with himself, he doesn’t feel very much like that man at all. 

“Can we maybe, uh…” Scott starts, and then he trails off, aware of just how stupid his request is before he even finishes speaking. His family clearly want to celebrate. 

“Can we maybe what?” Grandma prods, looking at him expectantly. 

“Um… it feels a little weird. Celebrating, I mean,” Scott says.  

“So… you want to just have a normal day?” Virgil raises his eyebrows, and then he shrugs. “Uh, sure. We can do that, I guess.”

“So you don’t want a present?” Alan asks, in a small, disappointed voice. 

“I mean, if you already have it, then maybe, uh… maybe later?” Scott hastily backtracks. He hadn’t meant to make the kid feel bad. 

“Is birthday cake okay?” Virgil asks. “We already bought one, but we could skip the candles and singing thing if you’d prefer that.”

“Sure.”

“We planned to go out to eat later, but we could order in or something instead,” Virgil adds. “Or we could do barbecue. You love barbecue, Scott.”

Does he? Scott’s not so sure. Virgil and the others have been right about everything so far, but something about being told that he’s supposed to like certain things is… off-putting. Last night’s carne asadas had been delicious, but the cheerful “it’s your favourite” he’d gotten when Grandma gave him his plate had made it kind of hard to actually enjoy the food. 

Does that make him a bad person?

“I’m not feeling barbecue,” Scott mutters. “Whatever you guys want to eat is fine.”

“You sure?” Virgil asks. “Remember what we talked about the other day? This is a vacation, but we’re also trying to get you into a routine that will optimise your recovery. That includes a strict diet and a structured schedule.”

They did talk about it the other day. Most of his medical appointments have been arranged for their arrival in Grand Roca, except for the therapist he’ll be seeing sometime this week. Virgil had mentioned something about consulting a nutritionist and doing physiotherapy exercises at-home.

“So this is my last cheat day?”

“I wouldn’t put it quite like that, but… sure, I guess.”

Well, then… what does Scott want to do? He bites his lower lip, unsure of the answer. 

Sleep is nice. Math is nice. Watching old TV reruns with Grandma is nice. But he’s pretty sure he’s going to have a lot of all of those for the forseeable future. He should choose something different. Something he might not get to do for a while.

Swimming, maybe? There’s a pool out back. Is there a pool at Gran Roca?

“Are we done?” John asks, jerking Scott out of his own thoughts as he shuts his tablet down with a sharp gesture. 

“Uh… I guess,” Gordon says. “Unless you wanna help us with the dishes. Virg, why’d you use a pan for the oatmeal? This stuff is like glue, eww!”

“I wanted to make sure it was cooked right. I don’t make it much.”

“The microwave is right there!” Gordon gestures with one foamy hand at the microwave above the stove. 

“Do you really wanna clean that out when the oatmeal inevitably spills everywhere because I don’t cook it enough to know when it’s gonna boil over?” Virgil asks. “Okay. Be my guest, I guess.”

“Uhh… actually, on second thoughts, the pan is totally fine, I love the pan, pans are my favourite,” Gordon backtracks, swirling more hot water around the pan before opening the dishwasher and shoving it inside. As Gordon speaks, John abruptly rises, closing the door behind him as he leaves without a single word.

“What’s up with him?” Alan asks, his mouth twisted in worry. 

“John’s a little stressed out right now, dear. Just give him some time,” Grandma says. “Now, about you boys go show Scott around? Alan, you can give him that tour you wanted yesterday, and maybe you can find something fun to do.”

“What are you guys gonna do?” Alan asks. 

“There’s a lot of stuff we need to take care of,” Virgil replies. “I mean, aside from moving to Gran Roca and organising Scott’s medical stuff, we’ve also gotta take care of a bunch of legal stuff, media stuff, Tracy Industries stuff… like, a lot of stuff.”

“You don’t say,” Gordon raises an eyebrow, drying his hand on a towel. “Well, as long as I don’t have to do any 'stuff', I guess I’m good.” He taps Scott on the shoulder, holding out his crutches. “C’mon, let’s go get out of their hair… before Virgil starts losing his.”

“Hey!” 

Scott lets his little brothers drag him out of the kitchen door and into the tree-less backyard. Well, not quite tree-less— there are a few trees dotting the far-off fence line. But the apple tree he remembers isn’t here. Instead, there’s a wide patio, which wraps around behind the living room to surround an oddly-shaped swimming pool, and an artificial fire pit surrounded by benches. 

“Okay, where to?” Gordon asks, as Alan shuts the door behind them. “Just say the word and we’ll get going.”

“Uh… I don’t know,” Scott admits. 

“We should start with the outbuildings,” Alan says, jogging to catch them up. “And then we can go all around the yard and then we can go inside.”

“Fine by me,” Scott says. 

Alan grins, darting ahead of them and around the corner. 

“Let’s start with the garage!” he calls. “There’s all kinds of cool stuff in there!” 

Scott shuffles along a little faster, the click of his crutches the only sound in the quiet that surrounds them. At least the dew has mostly evaporated now, so he’s not in danger of slipping on grass or slick wood. 

“Actually, that reminds me,” Gordon says, so casually it almost feels not-casual-at-all. “Grandma and Virge said you forgot everything. Like… everything everything.”

“Uh… yeah, I guess I did,” Scott mumbles, unsure what to say. He averts his eyes, concentrating on the grass under his feet. It’s very green. And, uh… grassy.

This is just the first time they’ve talked about it, him and Gordon. Since that meeting with Kayo, the memory loss has mostly only been brought up in private conversations with Grandma or the doctors, or in awkward meetings with his guardians and Godfrey and the medical team, where Scott mostly just tries not to think about how much he’s burdening his family by not really being himself anymore. 

“So what you’re telling me is… you’ve never played updog?” Gordon asks, innocently.

“What’s updog?”

Gordon throws his head back and cackles, clapping Scott on the shoulder.

“Not much, man, what’s up with you?” 

And with that, the tension that had been winding so tight in Scott’s stomach feels like it’s gone. And even though it’s the stupidest joke Scott’s ever heard— not like he remembers hearing much better— a high-pitch giggle escapes his mouth. And another one. And another one after that.

One crutch falls to the floor as Scott sways in place, trying to suck in enough oxygen as he laughs.

“Oh, man, I have so many more where that came from!” Gordon wipes his eyes, unsuccessfully trying to stop himself sniggering. He’s got a tight grip on Scott’s shoulder, keeping him upright even though he’s bent almost double with hysterics.

“Uh… are you guys okay?” Alan calls, eyeing them worriedly from the doorway.

“Yeah!” Scott manages, before breaking out in another fit of giggles. Scott’s lungs ache, his eyes streaming, and his face actually hurts, but he feels better than he has in... well, ever since he can remember. This time, he really means it.

He's okay.

Chapter Text

They almost don’t make it into the garage at all. Scott and Gordon manage to unbalance, toppling into a hysterical heap on the grass, Scott landing heavily on Gordon’s stomach. 

“Ow!” Gordon gasps between giggles, his eyes streaming. “Ow, you jerk…” 

“W—“ Scott forces in a deep breath, then very quickly: “wasn’t on purpose!”

“Seriously, are you guys all right?” Alan’s feet appear in Scott’s field of vision, blurry as they are. 

“Gordon’s gonna kill me,” Scott manages, pushing himself onto his knees as he clutches his aching ribs. “Too funny. Ow.”

“Stop, stop, I’m gonna pee!” Gordon groans, covering his face as another burst of laughter escapes his mouth. 

“Should I get Virgil?” Alan asks, frowning down at them.

Scott shakes his head, trying to take a deep breath without laughing again. No, no Virgil. Please. He’s finally having fun. 

“No, no, we’re good,” he manages, looking away from Gordon, in hopes that he might be able to stop laughing if only he doesn’t look at his brother. “We’re— we’re good.”

“You sure?” Alan asks, raising one eyebrow.

“Uh-huh, just gimme a sec,” Gordon’s voice floats on the air, and that’s enough to send Scott into yet another fit of pained giggles.

Eventually, though, they manage to catch their breaths. Gordon and Alan help Scott to his feet, pushing crutches into his mudstained hands, leading him into the garage. It feels like his entire body hurts— his face and ribs the worst of all— and his legs feel shaky, and yet he feels better than he has since waking up… when did he wake up? The Thursday before last?

The garage is brightly lit by fluroescent lights hanging from wooden beams, smelling strongly of oil and paint. On one wall hangs a series of shelves, containing all manner of spare parts and maintenance tools, and in the centre of the garage sit three vehicles: the minivan from yesterday, a chunky SUV, and an old-fashioned sports car. It’s bright blue, with a darker stripe running from front to back. 

“That was Grandpa’s,” Gordon says, helpfully. “He loved tinkering with that thing.”

“And it’s the same brand that made FAB 1,” Alan adds. “Um, Lady Penelope’s car. Parker taught us all to drive with that, so we should all be able to drive this one. And Penny, if she needs it.”

Scott certainly wouldn’t mind driving Penelope around. She’s scorching hot and super nice and she gave him a ton of candy. And he especially wouldn’t mind driving her around in a car like this— all sleek and fast and fast. And, hey, maybe if he were really lucky, he'd get a kiss at the end.

There’s a tiny cabinet laid into a nearby wall, the glass door showing some hooks that seem to hold car keys. There’s a small combination padlock on the cabinet, but it isn’t fastened. Scott leans heavily on one crutch and flicks the cabinet open. 

“What are you doing?” Alan asks. 

“Just checking something,” Scott replies. One of the keyrings has the same design as the hood ornament of the sports car, so he plucks that off its hook. 

“You’re not driving,” Gordon says, moving in front of him with crossed arms. “You know you have to retake your license, right?”

“Right, right, I know,” Scott shuffles past him. One tanned hand shoots out and grabs his bicep, so tight it almost hurts. 

“I’m serious, Scott,” Gordon says. “Virgil’s gonna kill me if you get any more brain damage on my watch.”

“It’s gonna be fine,” Scott insists. “I’m not actually gonna drive, I promise. I just want to see if I remember how to. That’s all.”

“You’re going to see if you remember how to drive without actually driving?” Alan asks, tilting his head. “Uhh… that doesn’t check out.”

“I’m going to sit in the driver’s seat, see if I remember how to turn on the engine, and if I remember what all the…” Scott hesitates. What’s the word? The word for the, uh… the things? The control things. He gives up, finishing lamely: “…what the stuff does.”

Gordon looks around the garage, mentally calculating something. 

“Hm…” Gordon lets go of Scott’s arm. “Virge did say you have to re-take all your licenses, and I guess it would be helpful to know where we need to start.”

“You’re kidding, right?” Alan exclaims. “Virgil is gonna kill us!” 

“Virgil is only gonna kill us if things go wrong,” Gordon shrugs, and then he fixes Scott with a sharp glare. “And they won’t go wrong, will they? We’re gonna do this my way, or not at all.”

“Scout’s honour,” Scott promises. 

“Okay, so first of all, we’re not gonna move,” Gordon says. “You’re not gonna touch the engine, and you’re gonna keep your feet off the pedals. We’ll sit in the car and go through the control panel, one thing at a time, and see if you know how to work it. And seatbelts on at all times, just in case. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“Huh. You’re not normally so…” Gordon trails off,  shaking his head. “Why am I complaining? Keep being easy for me, okay?”

Gordon doesn’t wait for an answer, leading Scott to the car. 

“What side are you getting in?” Gordon asks. 

“Uh… the driver’s side?”

“Yeah, which one is that?” Gordon asks. “And before you pick: this is a British car.”

Kayo’s driver had been on the left side yesterday. Gordon is obviously implying that there is a difference. Scott chooses the door on the right. 

“Awesome. Open her up, man.”

There’s a little button on the keyfob. One click, and the doors unlock, lights flashing. Scott blinks, dizzy again, as Gordon eagerly settles into the passenger. Scott leans his crutches against the SUV and— with more than a little difficulty— clambers into the driver’s side. The crutches slip, clattering on the concrete floor.

“Seatbelt, my guy,” Gordon tells him, buckling up. It takes a minute— Scott’s hands still don’t feel quite connected to the rest of his body— and by the time Scott’s done, Alan’s already in the backseat, bright blue eyes staring at him through the rearview mirror.

“Okay, so, you got the keys in your hand,” Gordon says. “What do you do with them?”

There’s a keyhole near the steering wheel. Scott manages to force the key in on his third try, and twists it to the right. The engine rumbles into life. 

In a flash, Gordon’s leaning over him, bony elbows digging hard into Scott’s thighs and stomach. The engine cuts off and Gordon settles back into his own seat, car keys in his hand. 

“So imagine the engine’s on,” Gordon says. “What happens now?”

“We go,” Scott says. “Uh… fast, I guess.”

“Show me.”

Scott looks at the control panel before him, and the gearstick at his side. There’s another lever— the handbrake, right? Is it on or off? There are two pedals at his feet. Which one is the accelerator?

“Um…” 

“That’s not how you teach someone to drive!” Alan pokes his body through the space between the front seats. He clears his throat, starts speaking in a shoddy British accent. “Ahem… ‘Ow do you h’open the door for h’a Lady?”

“What?” Scott blinks at him. 

“Hey, stop that,” Gordon shoos Alan back into the backseat, then freezes in place, eyes fixed somewhere behind Scott. “Oh, shit.”

Scott twists around, just as one pale hand knocks at Scott’s window. The person on the other side of the car door is wearing familiar brown and white plaid, too tall for their face to be seen, but Scott's pretty sure he knows who it is.

John. 

“Get out.” John says. His voice is muffled, but clearly terse, and he steps aside as Scott fumbles the door open. He picks the crutches off the floor, handing them to Scott as he clambers out, and meets his gaze for a split second. It’s hard to read John’s expression. He always looks the same: cold and mildly disappointed.

John looks away, striding over to Gordon.

“Gordon…” John starts, snatching the keys from his hand, and Gordon groans. 

“C’mon, why are you mad? We were just testing Scott!” 

“It was his idea,” Alan adds. “And we were just sitting in the car, we weren’t gonna actually drive anywhere!” 

“Then why did I hear the engine turn on?” John demands. 

“That was an accident,” Gordon says. 

“We can’t afford to have any more accidents. Were any of you thinking at all?” John replies. He glares at Scott. “I know you don’t know any better right now, but I expected more from you.” John shakes his head. “I’m locking the keys away and letting Virgil know what happened. Don’t let me catch you doing this again.”

With that, John leaves, pausing only long enough to put the car keys away and click the combination lock into place. Scott watches him leave, biting the inside of his lip. His stomach feels all tight and heavy.

They weren’t doing anything wrong. 

Who does John think he is, waltzing in here, treating them all like children? Sure, Alan’s a kid, but he acts older. 

“Is he always such a dick?” Scott mutters, scuffing the floor with his shoe. 

“John’s not a—“ Alan starts, and then he stops. “John doesn’t mean to be like that. Um, he’s autistic, so he doesn’t always know when he’s being unfair. I think he’s just really scared.”

“That doesn’t give him the right to treat us like crap,” Scott says, biting his lip. His face feels all hot. Stupid. This is stupid. 

“It doesn’t,” Gordon agrees. He slings an arm around Scott’s shoulder, leading him toward the side door they came in from. John’s at the house door, slipping inside. Probably gonna go complain at Virgil, just like he promised. And if Gordon and Alan were right earlier, Virgil is probably gonna be a dick, too.

The heavy, gnawing feeling gets worse, and Scott’s eyes feel all blurry. He rubs them clumsily, breathing hard, and Gordon pauses. 

“Uh… Scott, you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Scott mutters. His eyes feel all wet. Gross. He grits his teeth, tries to draw another breath but it’s all shaky. 

“You look like you’re about to cry.”

“So what?” Scott pushes Gordon’s arm away. “John’s being a dick, and it’s not fair. We weren’t doing anything wrong! I’m allowed to be upset about that!” 

“Yeah, yeah, totally,” Alan says. “Uh, take a deep breath, okay? Deep, deep breaths, okay, Scotty?”

God, he’s annoying when he wants to be. 

Scott glares at him, or at least he tries to. He wipes his eyes again.

“I’m trying!” he hisses. 

“I get that, you’re doing fine,” Gordon agrees, and his tone seems like it’s shifted into something different. Less friendly, but not angry. Commanding, almost. “Let’s skip the workshop and just take a walk around the perimeter. Come on, with me. Alan, close the door.”

Scott scowls, but follows Gordon out into the cool air. It smells fresh and floral, probably from the little white flowers dotted all around. The sky overhead isn’t blue anymore, like it was earlier. It’s grey, the bright white overcast kind. 

Gordon leads them down a little footpath that’s tough to walk on with the crutches. Scott has to keep looking down, placing the damn things with a precision he barely has, blinking away the water in his eyes. It’s exhausting, and he slips more than once. But every time he does, there’s a hand steadying him.

At first, that’s annoying, and he keeps shrugging them off. At least, it's annoying until Scott trips on a rock and it’s only Gordon’s quick reflexes that keep him from face-planting the mud. After that, he’s much more amenable to allowing his brothers to help.

As they pass various landmarks, Gordon makes comments on their history and significance: 

“That over there is the old pond. Not to be confused with the new pond, which is actually the swimming pool in town,” Gordon pauses, squints into the distance. “I think there’s a paddock, too, just behind it, but Ms Sturgess leases it ‘cause we don’t have any horses. That was Mom’s hobby.”

Scott files each tidbit of information away, for reference later. 

“The orchard there is open to everybody,” Gordon says, gesturing at a grove of trees a couple metres away. They’re just starting to bloom, green buds still visible on the branches. “I mean, we could close it up and use the fruit ourselves— God knows you eat more apple pie than literally anybody on Earth— but that’s time we don’t really have, and the people here are really nice. We didn’t always used to be rich. What goes around comes around, you know what I mean?”

Sometimes Alan has something to add, too.  

“I broke my ankle trying to jump that stream in the winter!” Alan points at a small, but treacherous-looking brook. “I was, like, seven or something. But it was okay, you and Virge drove me to the hospital and I got first pick of the TV for like… a month after that. And you even shared your secret candy stash with me.”

“Secret candy… Do you still have one of those?” Gordon asks, and then he shakes his head. “Uh… never mind. Dumb question.”

Finally, though, their little tour group comes to a halt. Scott’s dizzy again— that’s gotta stop at some point, right?— and there’s an ache settling into his hands and forearms. He breathes deeply— he’s not out of breath, he’s not— and glances around. They’ve reached the lawn next to the deck and the swimming pool. 

“Over there is the Lewis farm,” Gordon points beyond the treeline about fifty metres away. “They’re leasing these cornfields from us, since we’re not really in the corn biz anymore. I think they’re experimenting with, like, hydroponics.”

“Isn’t that your dissertation project?” Alan asks. 

“Yeah, but mine are undersea,” Gordon says. He hums. “Mm. Probably should go over and talk to them at some point, since we’re here. Might help with my project.”

Hydroponics. That’s indoor farming, right? Indoor anything sounds nice right about now. Scott shivers, wishing he’d brought a jacket. It feels cold out here, even though they’ve been walking around for ages.

“Is it just me, or is it raining?” Alan asks, one hand outstretched in front of him. The sky is looking a little darker now, and Scott blinks as something cold lands on his cheek. 

“Think it’s raining,” he mutters, wiping the water away.

“I knew I should have checked the weather report,” Gordon mutters, and he tugs at Scott’s elbow. “C’mon, let’s head inside.”

Scott stops in his tracks. 

Inside. Virgil and John are inside. So is Grandma. 

“Do we have to?” he asks. He’d almost forgotten that he’d been angry at all, but that familiar heavy feeling’s starting to weigh his stomach down once more. “I don’t feel like getting scolded again.”

“Oh, you don’t have to worry about that. It’s me they’ll be mad at, if they’re mad at all,” Gordon chuckles. “Seriously, man, no need to worry.”

That doesn’t really make Scott feel better. Before he can say that, though, Alan pipes up. 

“We could hang out in the basement. It’s warm and nobody’s going to bother us in there.”

“Oh, yeah, and there’s like a billion board games down there we can play,” Gordon adds. He grins. “Maybe I’ll teach you updog.”

“I’m not falling for that one again,” Scott tells him, though he can’t help but grin. 

“How about henweigh?” Gordon asks, leading him to a set of bulkhead doors set into the flowerbed on the eastern wall of the house. They’re painted the same blue as the windowsills and trim on the house. 

“What’s that? About ten pounds, right?” Scott swats Gordon’s shoulder. “Nice try.”

“Ooh, I can see I’ve got my work cut out with you, mister...” Gordon hauls one of the doors open, and Alan quickly darts down into the darkness. A moment later, lights flicker on, and Scott slowly makes his way down the now-illuminated steps, clutching the handrail for dear life.

Alan’s waiting for them in a large, open living area. It’s painted cream, with soft brown carpet. Short, wide windows sit near the ceiling, with drapes that match the carpet. There’s a big, slightly worn couch set against one wall, with a wooden coffee table before it and a square storage ottoman next to it. An old-fashioned TV sits on the cabinet on the other side of the room, and judging by the sheer amount of wires, there are some. 

There’s an old foosball table in one corner, as well as a dining table and some mismatched chairs. Several sets of shelves line the remaining wall, stuffed with old books and various board and card games. A small cleaning robot whirs along underneath the foosball table, gently vacuuming. 

Several doors lead off the main room, all of them ajar. One looks like a small bathroom, another a walk-in closet or larder. There are also two rooms that probably were once bedrooms, but are now an office and a storage room respectively. 
 
There’s a loud clang that makes Scott almost jump out of his skin, and Gordon appears beside him. 

“Ooh, haven’t been down here in years!” Gordon spins, stretches, and flops down on the couch. 

“What games do you want to play?” Alan asks. “We’ve got all kinds. There’s Uno, and Connect Four, and Scrabble, but house rules are that you have to be able to correctly use the word in a sentence, or else it doesn’t count —“

“I played ‘antidisestablishmentarianism’ one time, and I’m still being punished for it!” Gordon groans. 

“— and place names depend on who’s playing. John always tries to play that place in Wales. You know, Lanfair-thingy. The longest town name in the world.”

“Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch?” Gordon asks, casually. 

Alan’s mouth falls open. 

“What?” he squeaks.

“I learnt it specifically to annoy John,” Gordon shrugs, a wide smile playing at his lips. “All that time spent trying to squeeze it on the board, and I said it better than he did. He’s still mad at me about it."

“I don’t think that’s how you play Scrabble,” Scott says, and Gordon gives him a withering look. 

“Of course you don’t. Because you always lose at it.” Gordon shakes his head. “All right, no Scrabble, we’ll spend all day arguing the rules.”

They settle for chess, in the end, and Gordon runs upstairs to fetch his second-favourite physical set: a glossy box with magnetised wooden pieces. 

“My favourite one is made of crystal,” he explains upon his return, setting up the board quickly on the coffee table in front of the couch. “But that one lives on the island, in my room. I’ll see if Brains can send it over to Gran Roca for us.”

“Gordon’s really good at chess,” Alan whispers. “He’s almost as good as EOS. I think we can win if we team up against him”

“EOS is a computer, she doesn’t count!” Gordon scowls, and then he pauses. “Actually, that’s not a bad idea. Don’t think I’ll go easy on you guys, though.”

“Hah! You should be worried about us going easy on you!” Alan replies. 

“Okay, okay.” Gordon holds up his hands. “White or black? Scott, you choose.”

“Um…” Scott looks at the board. Is there a difference? 

“White always goes first,” Gordon says. “Since you guys are playing together, how about we even the playing field? I want black.” 

“Sure,” Scott agrees, with no small measure of relief, and Gordon adjusts the board accordingly. 

That relief doesn’t last very long, though. Scott stares at the board for a moment. He doesn’t remember how to move the pieces. 

“Alan?” he asks. “What do you think? This is a team effort, kiddo.”

Alan frowns, looking at the pieces as well. Scott’s stomach sinks. He looks lost, too.

“Um… just to check, we can move the… um… prawns forward two spaces, right? Just for the first turn?” Alan asks, not looking up from the board.

“The pawns can go forward two spaces,” Gordon confirms. “No leapfrogging, except when you’re playing John. And they have to capture diagonally, one space only. ”

“Okay, okay…” Alan nods. He glances up at Scott, pointing at the pawns in the centre of the row. “What do you think? Maybe one of these guys?”

“Sure.”

Alan obliges, pushing a piece forward with one deft motion. Gordon raises one eyebrow and silently pushes one of his pawns forward two spaces, too.

To Scott’s surprise, they win. 

More than once, actually. 

By the time Grandma comes downstairs, looking for them, Gordon’s two games down, and the third isn’t looking good.

“We should go easy on him,” Scott whispers. “Let him win at least once.”

“I heard that!” Gordon’s head snaps up. “If you go easy on me, I’ll replace all your hair gel with syrup.”

“You don’t need to do that, your brothers are sweet enough already,” Grandma coos. “Now, I hope you boys are hungry! We’re having sandwiches for lunch.”

“Um… who made them, Grandma?” Alan asks, suddenly white-faced and stiff.

“Virgil,” Grandma answers. “I had to run some errands, I’m afraid. But don’t worry, I’ll make plenty of cookies later, for our birthday boy.” 

Grandma pinches Scott’s cheek fondly, and Gordon moves his rook. 

“Checkmate,” he says, hurriedly. “Uh, Grandma, you really don’t need to do that. Scott said earlier that he just wanted a normal day, right? We’re all going to be really busy starting tomorrow, so maybe you should take the opportunity to relax, huh?”

“Yeah, that’s right!” Alan adds, jabbing an elbow into Scott’s ribs. 

“Uh… yeah, what they said,” Scott agrees, even though cookies sound delicious. “Love you, Grandma.”

“Oh, I love you too, sweetie,” Grandma leans down and presses a big, powdery kiss to his forehead. “I guess we do have a lot of cake to eat tonight. Maybe cookies would be overkill.” 

“Exactly!” Alan nods, wide-eyed. "You're always telling us to eat healthy!"

“I'm glad you're finally listening," Grandma says. "Now, I’d better go help Virgil set the table. Come upstairs once you’re done cleaning up after yourselves down here, all right?”

“Sure!” Gordon agrees, cheerfully. And then, as soon as Grandma’s out of earshot, climbing the stairs, he hisses under his breath. “You do not want to eat her cookies.”

“Why?”

“Just trust us on this one,” Alan shudders, scooping the playing pieces into their wooden box. 

As always, by the time Scott climbs to his feet, his brothers have his crutches ready for him. Alan skips up the stairs first, animatedly chatting with Virgil and Grandma while Scott navigates the chair-lift-less basement stairs, Gordon following close behind. By the time he gets up there, Virgil’s got a chair already out for Scott, and a little umbrella stand for his crutches sitting nearby. 

“Just so they don’t keep falling over, dear,” Grandma explains, helping him slot them into place before sitting down next to him. The table has been laden with plates of thick-cut sandwiches, mostly filled with cold meats, cheese and salad, and there’s a fruit bowl in the centre of the table. There are a couple yogurt pots and spoons, too— though the one in front of Scott’s place already has the film peeled off, and someone made him a plate with three sandwiches and a banana.

"You guys don't have to do that for me," he says, quietly. Grandma squeezes his hand and smiles at him.

"But we want to," she says, and heavy guilt settles on Scott's shoulders. That's not quite right.

They want to help Old Scott. Dead Scott. The guy who he used to be and isn't any more, and maybe never can be. They want to help that Scott with his crutches and his yogurt and anything else he might need. Not some stranger stuck in his skin.

Scott doesn't really know how to explain that, so he just nods and starts eating.

John never shows up for lunch, and nobody explains why. Virgil never mentions the car thing, either. Scott should probably be thankful for that, but it honestly just riles him up. 

Is John really avoiding them over a stupid car? Did he actually snitch on them, or was it just a threat? Does Virgil care as much as Gordon seemed to think he would earlier? And maybe the most pressing question of all: what on Earth could possibly be so bad about Grandma’s cookies?

Something tells Scott he probably won’t get answers to those questions anytime soon.

Chapter Text

When everybody has eaten their fill, Alan and Gordon gather and wash the dishes again. Virgil clears away the leftovers, storing the sandwiches in clear tupperware boxes before stacking it all in the fridge. Grandma peels the old pain-patch off Scott’s neck and replaces it with a new one, with an affectionate kiss on his forehead. 

The afternoon passes in much the same way as the morning. It’s still raining outside, so Alan drags Scott to the living room, where he's deposited on a soft couch, his crutches leant against the armrest. Gordon vanishes through the basement door. 

"Grandma says we're not allowed to play VR games with you until the doctor clears it," Alan says, by way of explanation. "That sucks, because you're the best squadmate in Zombie Squirrel Massacre 3. You always give me healthpacks and you’re really good at spotting the enemies. Like, crazy good. That’s probably how you always know when my room is a mess.”

Alan flops down next to Scott with a heavy sigh. The couch is soft and plush, a slightly stained cream colour underneath the throws and cushions. There's another identical couch on the other side of the room, flanked by cosy-looking armchairs. A state-of-the-art holo unit is embedded in the coffee table, and an antique television sits in one corner- the large, flatscreen kind. The walls are a gentle off-white and the carpet is the same kind of soft blue as the windowsills. It’s cosy and bright in here, despite the rain lashing at the windows.

Scott shifts in place, trying to make himself comfortable. He nods along as Alan speaks, mostly to show he’s paying attention. No video games. Used to be a total nag. Got it. 

“We’re not allowed to swim or play sport with you, either,” Alan adds. “Not until the crutches and stuff are gone. But Grandma and Virgil said it shouldn’t take long.”

Not long, everybody says. How long?

Guilt settles into Scott’s stomach, cold and heavy. Every single part of his family’s lives has been upended because of him. Because he got hurt. 

“Okay, buckle up buckaroos!” Gordon saunters in, carrying a stack of small memory storage boxes. “We’ve got one helluva show for you tonight– well, this afternoon, I guess.”

“Show?” Alan perks up immediately. 

“Uh-huh,” Gordon grins, then addresses Scott directly. “You, sir, have a choice: we can either binge-watch my favourite TV show, Into the Unknown with Buddie and Ellie. That’s fifteen seasons of exciting, heart-pounding adventure– and your two favourite brothers guest-star in the last two.”

“Two favourite?” Scott asks, and Gordon deflates. 

“Okay, fine, you always tell us you don’t have a favourite, but we can totally tell you like us the most– isn’t that right, Alan?”

“Um…” Alan scratches his neck awkwardly. 

“He means yes,” Gordon says, sweetly. “Okay, Buddy and Ellie is a no-go, I get that. Probably a good thing, Virgil might actually kill me if I influence you back into your reckless, adrenaline junkie ways.” Gordon clears his throat. “Next option: we watch your favourite TV, which also happens to be John and Kayo’s favourite, too. It’s this old puppet show called ‘Sting-Ray’, and–”

The thought of having to sit through hours of something with the weight of expectation on his shoulders turns Scott’s stomach. And if John likes it, it’s probably not even that good.

“Pass,” Scott cuts across Gordon.

“Uh… okay. No Sting-Ray. Got it.” Gordon clears his throat, tries again. “Um, so the last thing I have is a bunch of old home videos, from when we were kids. I figured you probably wouldn’t appreciate Grandma’s soap operas.”

“Why not?” Scott asks. “We were watching them together at the hospital.” 

Grandma likes Shortland Street and Home and Away. Both have been pretty hard to follow: Grandma has to keep explaining and re-explaining the characters and storylines, but they’ve been a fun distraction from… well, everything else.

To be honest, he barely recalls the last episodes he watched. But he does recall how Grandma lights up while talking about the characters and storylines. They make her happy in a way she isn’t when she tries to explain the basics of Scott’s life. And if Scott’s honest with himself, it’s a relief to have something explained to him that he isn’t already supposed to know.

“You actually like that stuff?” Alan exclaims. 

“Oh, man, we’re totally delving into that later,” Gordon says. “Okay, so Grandma’s soaps are kinda on the table. I don’t have the chips for those, but we can stream them later– I think Brains set something up for Grandma. That’s probably how you were able to watch them at the hospital. And in the meantime, we can take a walk down memory lane.” 

“Okay,” Scott agrees. Home videos might be a good idea. Nice as his family and surroundings are, they’re unfamiliar. The more he can learn about them, the sooner he can start giving them the answers they want to hear, the better. 

“So, which home videos are here?” Alan asks, poking through the boxes. “Are we gonna start with Scott’s baby stuff and work up?”

Scott tries not to shudder at the thought of spending so much time focused specifically on Old Scott. Perfect, whole Old Scott, who could walk in a straight line and button his own shirts. Urgh. 

“I dunno," Gordon tilts his head to one side. “I was thinking that we could go the other way. Start with the latest and go back.”

“Sounds good to me,” Scott says, and that’s the end of that. 

Gordon gets the holo-display all set up and Alan darts around the room, closing the curtains for ‘cinematic effect’, as he calls it. In the end, Scott ends up with one brother curled up on either side of him, both eager to explain and narrate every single clip. 

The first is from Alan’s recent birthday. His seventeenth, judging by the balloons and banners hung up around the brightly-lit atrium in the video. 

“This was last month,” Gordon whispers. “And that’s the living room on the island, by the way.” 

It looks pretty nice. Bright blue skies and lush green mountains outside, and a sparkling sea beyond that. A grand piano sits near the glass-fronted balcony, not far from a red desk. It’s a little hard to tell, with the way the camera keeps swinging around, but Scott’s pretty sure there’s a pool outside, too. There’s a big aquarium behind the sunken couches, and on the pine-panelled walls hang a series of portraits. Old Scott, his brothers and Kayo, all wearing some kind of uniform.

The camera pans over his family, chatting animatedly with one another. There’s a new man, too– a slight South Asian guy with big blue spectacles and an orange jacket. 

“Did you meet Brains yet?” Alan whispers. “He’s awesome. And look, there’s MAX!” 

Grandma enters the screen, carrying a cake laden with candles, a small robot at her side– presumably MAX. Once the cake is on the table in front of Alan, MAX quickly lights them.

“Don’t worry,” she says. “I didn’t make it. Virgil picked it up in Paris on the way home yesterday.”

The cameraman laughs. 

“Okay, are we all ready?” he asks, and Scott can’t quite place his voice. 

The family burst into a lively rendition of ‘happy birthday’, after which Alan blows out his candles. 

“Wow, seventeen already…” Virgil murmurs, as Gordon shoves a gift into Alan’s hands. 

“Next year, I’ll buy you your first beer,” the cameraman says, and John lifts his head, gazing at the cameraman with a quizzical expression. 

“The drinking age in Kansas is twenty-one, remember?” 

“Oh, yeah. Okay, squirt, we’ll go to England,” the cameraman replies, and the camera swings again, as though he’s shrugging. 

“England? I’m coming too!” Gordon insists, flushing pink. Beside him, Alan laughs as he tears off the final piece of wrapping: a new VR game. 

“Thank you, Gordo!” Alan tackles his brother, squeezing him tight. In reality, Alan pokes Scott in the side. 

“Hey, can we still go to England for beer next year?” he asks. 

“I guess,” Scott replies. There’s no reason Alan can’t go with the cameraman and Gordon, provided Grandma and Virgil okay it.

On-screen, Alan tears open another package, then grins at John. Alan’s clutching a miniature holo-display unit. 

“Is this…?” he asks, breathlessly, practically vibrating in his seat. 

“You said you wanted to see the quasar I’m studying,” John replies, with an uncharacteristic smile. “I loaded in pretty much all the star systems we know about. EOS helped me.”

“Thank you EOS!”

“You are welcome,” a cool female voice says, out of nowhere, and Alan sets the holo-display unit down, grabbing a red envelope. He opens it and gasps, delighted. 

“Tickets for the Celebrity Alligator Wrestling live season premiere? Thank you, Scott!” 

Alan launches himself at the cameraman, the camera briefly blocked by blurry, straw-coloured hair. 

“I figured we could go together,” the cameraman– Old Scott, presumably– says. Scott’s stomach sinks. He probably should’ve figured that out sooner. Beside him, in reality, Alan shifts in place.

“Wait, I never gave you your gift. Hang on a sec, okay?" Alan leaps off the couch and sprints up the stairs.

“Careful!” Gordon yells after him, and then he tuts, shaking his head. “Kids these days, huh?” 

Gordon pauses the video, halfway through Alan opening a hand-knitted sweater.

“Don’t worry, I just got you socks,” Gordon says, and he smiles widely. “I already put them in your dresser. You’ll know them when you see them."

Somehow, Gordon manages to make it sound like a threat.

Loud footsteps thud down the stairs. Alan appears again, a partially-gift wrapped box in hand. He tears off more blue, plane-patterned paper, tossing it on the coffee table, then flops down next to Scott, shoving a box into his hands. 

THUNDERBIRD ONE SCALE MODEL KIT, the box says, with a picture of a gleaming silver-blue rocket on the side. It’s sleek and beautiful, with a bright red nose cone and delicate silver wings. 

“Um… I ordered this after you got me a Three model kit for Christmas,” Alan explains. “You really like making model planes and stuff. It’s kind of our thing. We haven’t had any time to sit down and make Three yet. But I was thinking, maybe when your hands are better, we could hang out and make them together.” 

Alan presses his lips tightly together, looking up at him with big, pleading eyes. It's adorable. He can't possibly say 'no'.

“I’d like that,” Scott tells Alan, even though he barely knows what Thunderbird One is. The rocket on the box, he guesses, though he’d assumed it was some kind of plane.

“Awesome!” Alan squeals, enveloping Scott in an eager hug. 

“You guys should make Four, too,” Gordon says. “Then I can put it in my island launch aquarium. The model Sting-Ray can have a friend.”

“I still can’t believe John forgave you for that,” Alan said, and then he grins. “Oh! If we get a Five kit made, John will want to hang out and help us with that."

Urgh. Hanging out with John? No, thanks. Even if John wanted to hang out– which he hasn’t seemed to want to for the last few weeks– he’d probably just find something else to scold Scott over.

Gordon laughs and nods as he picks up the remote again. 

"You should totally do that, see if you can get a Two and Shadow kit made, as well. Then we'll have the full set." 

Gordon unpauses the video. Alan burrows into Scott's side as the living room fills with the joy of last month's celebrations. 

In the video, Alan opens more gifts: a sweater from Grandma, earpieces from Brains, a glossy physical book from Kayo, and a hand-painted portrait from Virgil. Alan and Grandma cut the cake and give it out, while Virgil hops on the piano, starts playing something fun and upbeat. 

Everybody looks so happy. 

It's not that everybody is unhappy right now, here in this little farmhouse. But there's been a kind of… what is it? A kind of tension that doesn't seem to exist in the video. The smiles aren't as bright, the words and actions he witnesses somehow less easy, less relaxed. 

Something isn't right in the here-and-now. Is that 'something' him? 

The question gnaws at Scott's stomach as the video ends and a new one begins: another birthday, on a beach this time. Gordon is the centre of attention now, and he's soaking up every ounce of it.

“I was born on Valentine’s day, by the way,” Gordon says, turning the volume up a couple notches. “That’s why I’m so handsome and lovable.”

"Ooh, you got the good stuff!" Video Gordon grins, taking a can of beer from a nearby man. Tall, dark-haired, and pale, with a familiar-unfamiliar dimpled smile. It’s Old Scott.

Old Scott doesn't need crutches to stay upright. He grins right back at Gordon, grabbing him in a playful headlock for a moment. 

"I always get the good stuff!" Old Scott ruffles Gordon's hair good-naturedly. "Show some respect!"

"No, not the hair!" Gordon squeals, before being released. 

"Okay, you get off easy this one time, birthday boy," Old Scott agrees, slapping Gordon on the shoulder before sauntering offscreen– easily, confidently, like he actually belongs in his own body.

Scott’s stomach twists uncomfortably.

It’s not fair. He should be like that, and he isn’t.

The video continues, Old Scott taking charge of the grill with his eager protége, Alan. John and Gordon play in the sea with Kayo, as Virgil sets up a small easel and starts daubing paint onto a canvas. This time the cameraman seems to be MAX, remote-controlled by Brains, who’s enjoying some kind of fruit drink with Grandma. On the horizon, the sun starts to dip toward the ocean. 

A perfect summer evening, finished with sparklers and s’mores on a campfire.

Is it familiar?

Scott’s not sure. He’d like it to be.

The videos continue: Gordon and Alan goofing off, pretending to make a cooking show when it’s Gordon’s turn to cook dinner. Brains demonstrating prototype rocket-boots. Alan narrating his older brothers’ hangovers at New Year’s Day brunch. The New Year’s Eve that resulted in the hangovers.

They all blur together, eventually. Santa hats. Surprised yelling. Someone sneezes. Halloween costumes. Smiles, laughter, comfort and closeness. All tantalisingly close to being not-unfamiliar. 

At some point, Scott closes his eyes. And then cold hands grip Scott's ankles and he jerks awake. 

The room is empty, save a wide-eyed John. He’s clutching Scott’s ankles, looking like a deer caught in headlights. Behind him, the holo-display is off. On the coffee table lies a folded blanket sitting next to the model box Scott doesn’t remember letting go of. 

“It’s okay, go back to sleep. Dinner’s going to be a while yet,” John says, hurriedly, dropping Scott’s feet at the end of the couch. Since when was he lying down?

Scott forces himself upright, clutching the backrest. His head pounds in protest. Ugh. Must have fallen asleep, and the pain patch ran out. 

“Are you okay?” John asks, almost managing to sound like he cares. 

‘M fine,” Scott manages, clumsily wiping sleep from his eyes. And then, mostly because he’s petty and still mad about earlier: “why’d you care?”

“I mean, we are brothers,” John says, perching himself on the coffee table. He can’t quite seem to meet Scott’s eyes, preferring the floor instead.

Somehow that annoys Scott even more. John was friendly with Old Scott. There’s a lot of stuff that’s unfair about Old Scott and everything he had that Scott doesn’t, but having a John that actually liked him is definitely near the top of the list. It’s not like Scott’s failing to be Old Scott on purpose– he’s trying, damn it. 

“Unfortunately,” Scott mutters under his breath. And then, to John: “what’s your deal, anyway?” 

“Uh…” John begins. He stops, frowning, before continuing with no small degree of hesitation. “I’m in charge of your financials, remember?"

“I know that,” Scott snaps. “I meant ‘why do you hate me?’.”

John’s face goes slack, and he stares gormlessly at Scott. 

“Hate you?” he echoes, after a moment. “I don’t…”

Annoyance flares into anger.

“Yeah, you do,” Scott says. “I’ve seen the way you look at me. You’ve been a total dick lately. I mean, you’ve been avoiding me every chance you get, and you got all mad for no reason earlier, and I don’t know why.”

John is silent, blinking at him with wide green eyes.

“I’ve seen our home videos, I know we used to be on good terms,” Scott says. “So what is it? Did I do something to piss you off, or what? You know if I did, I don’t remember, right?”

“No,” John says, shaking his head. “No, you… you didn’t do anything.” 

“Then what is it?” Scott demands, and John falls silent again. But this time it’s a very different kind of silence. John’s face starts flushing pink, his eyes noticeably wet, and his mouth twists uncontrollably. 

“You died, Scott,” John manages to choke out. “You died, and nobody will admit it, and I can’t have you back even though you’re sitting right here.”

Scott blinks, ice running through his veins.

“What?”

He died? When?

Nobody mentioned that before. 

“I mean,” John pauses, his voice wobbling. “I saw the doctor's reports. I know that brick just knocked you out. I know you didn’t literally die. But you’re not Scott anymore. Everything that made you him is gone. You don’t– you’re not you. And everybody’s just pretending that… that everything is going to be fine, and…” 

John chokes on his own breath, and he goes very, very still, his eyes fixed on the carpet. His mouth twists again, his fingers clasped white-knuckled over his knees. He blinks, tears rolling down his cheeks, suddenly looking very small and vulnerable despite being almost as tall as Scott himself.

Scott’s body moves ahead of his brain. Before he knows it, he’s got his arms wrapped tightly around John, leaning almost as hard on his brother as he’d been leaning on the couch backrest. John makes a damp, nasal sound and presses his face into Scott’s shoulder, winding his arms around Scott. 

Shame floods Scott’s veins, burning his face. Of course John doesn’t hate him. How short-sighted and selfish of him to even think that. He’s so stupid. 

“Sorry,” Scott mutters, trying to blink away the wetness in his eyes. “I know you don’t hate me.”

John mumbles something incomprehensible into Scott’s shoulder as he weeps, hugging him tighter. 

Before Scott knows it, he’s crying, too.

They might have cried for a few seconds, or maybe a few hours. It’s hard to tell. When the tears stop flowing, Scott tries an apology. 

“I shouldn’t have yelled at you,” he mutters, wiping his face with his sleeve. “Actually, I think you might be the only person here who gets me.”

John is the only one who’s acknowledged that Old Scott and Scott aren’t the same person. 

“I shouldn’t have withdrawn,” John replies. “I always compartmentalise when I get stressed out, and uh… this is stressful. For everybody, I mean. Not just me.”

“You can say that again,” Scott can’t help but chuckle. 

“This is stressful. For everybody, I mean. Not just me,” John says, a small smile stretching his mouth. 

“Oh, you think you’re funny,” Scott says, swatting John lightly on the arm. 

“I’m the funniest of us all.”

With that deadpan delivery, Scott doesn’t doubt him. They’re interrupted by a loud scrabbling noise, and then the front door swings open.

“Hurry and get the table set up before it gets cold,” Virgil says, and Alan darts through the hall, barely stopping long enough to toe his shoes off. Virgil follows, arms filled with cartons. Grandma and Gordon enter last, each carrying several bags. Gordon happens to glance through the doorway as he passes, and pauses with a smile.

“Hey, you’re awake. We thought about waking you up, but the doctors said you have to sleep as much as possible to heal up. We thought we’d better let you rest.” 

“Are you boys all right?” Grandma peers past Gordon, pushing her glasses up her nose. “Your eyes are looking a little…”

“We’re fine, Grandma,” John says, brightly. “We just talked, that’s all. Did you get the brisket?”

“Oh, and so much more besides!” Gordon holds up one heavy-looking bag. “This baby here is sides alone!”

“They went out for barbecue,” John explains. “Normally, you’re the one who insists on grilling everything, so the rest of us are kinda out of practice. And the place in town is run by one of Dad’s old friends, so they always give us extra sauce.”

“And we always give them an extra tip,” Gordon adds.

“Go wash yourselves up and meet us in the kitchen,” Grandma says, and so they do. John’s nice enough to dispense a new pain-patch and even wipes over Scott’s crutch handles while he washes up.

There’s already a plate made up for Scott by the time he sits down with his family, piled high with sliced meats, sausage, steak and chicken, slathered in a sticky-sweet sauce, with plenty of potato, coleslaw, beans and corn on the side. 

“All of your favourites,” Virgil assures him, and Scott tries to ignore the way the food suddenly seems a lot less delicious than it had five seconds ago. 

Like earlier, Gordon and Alan are on wash-up duty, bickering and flicking suds at each other almost as much as they actually clean the dishes.

“Normally we have a rota, but things are a little different right now. We’ve all got specific jobs to do,” John says, by way of explanation. 

“Wait, I didn’t hear about this,” Scott says. “What’s my job?”

“To get better,” Virgil replies, squeezing his shoulder in a way that’s probably supposed to be reassuring, but doesn’t really feel it. “Just focus on your recovery for now. Everything else will fall into place."

Grandma ends up dragging Scott into the living room, eagerly settling down for their designated Soap Opera Time. John follows, though he curls up in an armchair and largely ignores them in favour of whatever he’s reading on his tablet. Business reports or something, maybe.

“Okay, how about going to Summer Bay first?” Grandma asks, doing something-or-other to the holo-display. Presumably setting up the streaming thingy Gordon mentioned. 

“Sure.”

Halfway through the episode, Virgil and the younger two sneak in, clutching small plates containing generous slices of cake. Must be the birthday cake that was mentioned earlier. Alan eagerly curls up next to Scott, pushing a plate into his hands.

The cake is delicious, with alternate layers of chocolate and vanilla. It’s light and fluffy with a fudgy, dense chocolate frosting. Even better, after Scott finishes his slice, Virgil gives him another. 

“One last treat, before we start the diet plan,” Virgil says, settling into the couch on the other side of the room again.

Before putting on the new episode of Shortland Street, Grandma starts quietly explaining the background behind Doctor Whatshisface, whose boyfriend has turned out to be the new patient’s husband.

“I can’t believe you like this stuff,” Gordon murmurs, almost too quiet for Scott to hear. “We’ve gotta dig the albums out and see if your music taste got changed, too."

Once both episodes are over, and the plates and forks cleared away courtesy of Gordon and Alan, John leaves to take a work call and Virgil starts tinkering with the upright piano in the corner of the living room. Scott opens up his tablet, calling up a new puzzle. 

The music is soft and gentle, and before long Scott finds his eyelids feeling heavy. A warm hand settles on his shoulder. 

“Scotty, why don’t you go to bed?” Grandma suggests, and so he does. 

He trudges up the stairs, white-knuckled grip on the bannister, and brushes his teeth. He rinses the foam away, and then rinses the rest of his face for good measure, and does not look at his own face in the mirror. He changes into the soft, worn tee and shorts that have been left on his bed and crawls in.

As always, he’s unable to find a truly comfortable position. Nevertheless, tonight sleep claims Scott blissfully quickly.

Chapter Text

In other news, International Rescue have confirmed that the GDF are assisting with their relocation following the shocking assault on Scott Tracy. A representative claimed that the move will help International Rescue respond faster to calls in their pared-down state, although critics argue that–

The TV turns off, curtailing the midday newsreader’s speech, and Mama sets the remote down on the countertop. She bustles through the kitchen, and a cup of coffee appears on the table in front of Louise, steaming gently.

“I told you Sam was bad for you, didn’t I?” 

It’s not a question.

Mama did tell her. Papa told her, too. Everybody said the same thing: you don’t have to marry the guy that knocked you up in college . But she’d been young and in love and sick of Midwestern winters, and Sam had been so sweet.

She’d been so stupid, trusting Sam all these years. And now look where that got her: exhausted from working so much to pay for Sam’s mistakes, hiding in her parent’s house while paparazzi swarm her neighbours back in Texas. The whole thing’s such a mess that even Sam’s parents offered to help her find a divorce lawyer. 

“I know, Mama,” Louise sniffles, clasping her hands around the cup. It’s the fancy china teacup Auntie Jen got her from her trip to England all those years ago, warm to the touch. She lifts it to her lips and takes a long sip. 

It’s awful. Mama’s coffee machine always burns the grinds, but she won't get a new one because it was a wedding gift from her late uncle. Still, the coffee is hot and it tastes like home. 

It’s good to be back here, in sleepy suburban Ohio. The house is mostly as she remembers it: the furniture’s shifted around some, and there are new photos on the walls and the decor is a little more up-to-date, but it’s the house she grew up in. Full of memories of better days and much-needed comfort.

“I told you, you should’ve left him after that screaming match,” Mama says, slipping into the chair opposite, hands clasped around her own cup of coffee. The amber morning light makes her silvery hair look almost blonde. “That’s how it always starts. Now I’m not saying it’s a good thing he hurt Mr Tracy. But I have to say it– Lord forgive me, but it’s true– I’m so thankful he hurt somebody else and not you.”

“Sam would never hit me,” Louise says, sharply. He wouldn’t. He’s not that kind of man. “He loves me. He loves the kids.”

“He loves you so much he embezzled millions of dollars from his boss and lost his job?” Mama asks, raising one silver eyebrow at her. 

“It wasn’t like that.” 

Mama purses her lips, eyeing her with a steady green gaze. Behind her, hanging on the wall near the stairs, a stern portrait of Grandpa Morris stares disapprovingly into Louise’s soul.

“Then what was it like?”

”He said he didn’t do it,” Louise mutters, painfully aware of just how stupid she must sound. All criminals say the same thing, don’t they? “He said he put in applications everywhere, but nobody would hire him.”

“And that was why he sat on his sorry behind for however-many-months, while you did all the hard work and kept your family afloat?” 

Sam hadn’t done nothing, not exactly. He’d helped the kids with their homework and kept up his regular chores… for the first month or two, at least. And then the savings had started running dry and the bills had kept on coming and he started spending more time locked up in that basement. And somewhere along the way– Louise isn’t sure exactly when– every conversation with Sam had turned into a screaming match, and she’d started to regret ever leaving Ohio at all.

“It was really hard, Mama,” Louise manages, keeping her eyes fixed on the whorls in the wood of the kitchen table. “For both of us.”

“Yes, well, harder for some,” Mama says, darkly, before reaching forward to lay a hand on Louise’s shoulder. “How are you holding up?”

“I’m okay,” she says, and it’s mostly not a lie. She’s… well, she’s still here. Still keeping on. Can’t sleep, can’t eat, can’t relax one whit, but she’s alive. 

Pastor Stuart always said people ought to count their blessings, and Louise is really, really trying.

It seems like she’s avoided the worst of the press by coming up here. The reporters don’t know what her babies look like, and her neighbours promised not to say a word about her family. As long as she’s careful and doesn’t draw too much attention to herself, they’ll all stay safe. And speaking of her children, they’re doing pretty well, all things considered. Dad is public enemy number one and Mom moved them across the country without any warning, but they’re settling into their new school up here pretty well. It helps that they’re enrolled under her maiden name. 

“And I’m the Queen of Sheba,” Mama shakes her head. “All right, I guess that was a silly question. Any news I should know about?”

“Sam’s lawyer called. Said the pre-trial hearing was set for the end of the month, when one of the Tracy fellas is in town.”

“Must be nice to be so rich the judicial system works around your schedule,” Mama murmurs. Louise is inclined to agree. “Are you going to go?”

“I don’t know,” Louise admits. If Sam had gotten himself into trouble a year ago, she’d have moved heaven and earth to help him, to be there in his hour of need. But now… well, things are different. And Sam hasn’t tried to communicate once, not even through his lawyer. 

What was he thinking? 

She’d found out what he did through Kat Cavanaugh’s evening show– a customer had told Louise about it while she was on register earlier in the day, but she hadn’t connected ‘Sam went to New York and wouldn’t say why’ and ‘someone attacked that International Rescue guy in broad daylight’. Why would she? Sam was a nice man. 

Was. 

She’ll never forget the look on his face, caught in slow-motion footage over Scott Tracy’s left shoulder. That snarling, horrible look of rage. Sam could get angry, sure, but… 

Louise lets out a heavy breath, and Mama reaches over and squeezes her hand. 

“Honey, I know you don’t want to think about it, but your cousin Eliza has a friend who’d do you a real good discount on a divorce. Heck, with all this hullaballoo, she might even do it for free. I’ve got her number. All you’d have to do is give her a call.”

Louise probably should. There isn’t any future with Sam, is there? Not after the last six months, and certainly not after this. 

And yet… it’s Sam. 

The man who shyly flirted with quotes from cheesy romance books when they first met. The man who gave her a ring he made himself. The man who’d been a caring, devoted husband and father for years and years and years, until the mess with Grafton started. Until the lying and the hiding and the screaming and… this.

She can’t give up on him. 

She can’t continue, either. 

“I’ll think about it, Mama,” Louise says. 

Chapter Text

“All right, that should b-be the last of the m-modular repair units,” Brains mutters, checking off another box on his increasingly blurry list. “You can t-take it now.”

“Understood, sir,” says the GDF officer, and he signals to his crew to start pushing the unit toward the cargo plane waiting in Thunderbird Two’s hangar.

Brains rubs his eyes and stifles a yawn. There’s no time to rest, not yet. There’s so much to organise and keep track of. He almost wishes for the comparatively easy days of moving as a graduate student. At least then he only had to worry about a few computers, rather than International Rescue’s rather sizeable fleet of vehicles and specialised equipment.

MAX bleeps somewhere to his left, drawing his attention.

“M-MAX? What is it?”

MAX bleeps again, more gently this time, and produces a cup of tea. It’s a perfectly bright red-brown, the scent of cardamom and cinnamon filling the air. Masala chai. 

“Thank you, friend,” Brains says, taking the cup. The warmth of the ceramic seeps through his fingers, grounding him to the here-and-now. He takes a sip: it’s sweet and spicy and revitalising. “Mm. Delicious.”

MAX bleeps one more time, with a pleased-sounding whir, and slowly trundles along the mostly-empty hangar floor. 

There’s not much in here now: Thunderbirds One, Three and Shadow have already been moved, with the help of EOS and Kayo. Two has been a bit trickier, mostly due to its array of modules– EOS has been flying it back-and-forth from Gran Roca for the past few days, since the GDF ships available are better-suited to moving International Rescue’s smaller vehicles and vast array of equipment. 

The only Thunderbirds still present are Four, in its launch tank, and Five’s elevator, still latched securely to the platform. Just as it was when John had frantically summoned the island’s residents just a few weeks ago.

It feels odd, being here without the Tracy family. He’s only done it twice before: once when Jeff brought him into International Rescue’s fold, some ten years ago now. Once when Scott had brought up the idea of restarting International Rescue, some five years ago now. 

Back then, the empty island had been exciting. Hope had surged through him at the thought of what International Rescue would do for the world. The future had been bright and certain: together, they would make the world a better and safer place.

Brains has always been the kind of man to enjoy solitude and quiet, but this new emptiness is daunting. Worrying. While some things are certain, like the fact that Jeff Tracy’s family are good, kind-hearted people who will continue his altruistic work in one way or another, it’s hard to say exactly what the future of International Rescue looks like. 

Maybe the move to Gran Roca will enable the family to balance Scott’s medical needs with the needs of the world. Maybe it won’t. Maybe Brains is going to spend the next couple months developing assistive devices to help Scott get back into the field, or independant daily life. Maybe Brains will be quietly let go as International Rescue is shut down, unable to function with even fewer operatives.

Brains takes a long sip of chai. He certainly hopes that last possibility won’t happen. Working for International Rescue might well be the best thing that’s ever happened to him: both Jeff and Scott were excellent employers, paying Brains far more than he’d ever hoped in order to do the things he loves the most– all for the greater good of mankind, no less. 

Still, if the worst should happen… Brains has always gotten along well with Virgil and John. Both men are competent engineers– Virgil specialising in modular and multi-use technology, and John in communications– and Brains has spent countless hours discussing new technology and ideas with them. If International Rescue should cease to function, no doubt there’ll be a space for Brains somewhere in one of Tracy Industries’ many research branches. He’ll still be able to help his friends create a better world, just in a different way than he’d like. And he’ll still be able to support the Tracy family, albeit from a distance.

All will be well, Brains reminds himself, draining the last of his cup. The last sips of chai are just as sweet and refreshing as the first: MAX really has outdone himself this time. 

MAX holds out an appendage, taking the empty cup with a happy chirp. 

“Yes, it was excellent,” Brains tells him. “That might even have been better than my own chai. Well done, MAX.”

MAX bleeps and speeds up, whirring toward the workshop where Brains has spent the last week slowly packing up his things. There’s so much of it: it’s amazing how much one can accumulate in the space of just five years, especially when one’s employer is more than happy to pay for whatever one asks for.

In the middle of the room lies the reason for Brains’ sluggish packing: the Rescue Operations Robot that Colonel Casey sent over to the island the weekend following Scott’s assault. Colonel Casey herself stands over the central workbench, her arms clasped behind her back. She glances up at the sound of Brains’ footsteps, and nods him a silent greeting. 

Brains swallows. He hadn’t realised she was here– she’d told him, of course, but the hours and days have been blurring together as of late. Wasn’t she supposed to be here tomorrow? Or was that yesterday?

“Hello, C-c-colonel.”

“Brains,” Casey’s tone is formal, her face solemn. “I'm here for your analysis."

“I’m a-afraid it’s n-not finished yet,” Brains replies, apologetically. He’d work faster if he could, but his state-of-the-art equipment and personally-coded programs can only run so many scans at once.

“Then give me your thoughts so far. Do you think the R.O.Bots will help alleviate International Rescue's workload?" 

“I think they c-could,” he says. “If they are p-programmed c-correctly, there’s no reason they c-can’t help International Rescue.”

And International Rescue are going to sorely need that help. Scott’s medical care and legal affairs are going to take up a significant chunk of the Tracy family’s time for the foreseeable future, and International Rescue already had difficulty responding to all calls when operating with a full crew and open schedule. 

Casey breathes a sigh of relief. 

“That’s good enough for me,” she says. “We’ll unveil them tomorrow and begin operations immediately afterward.”

“W-wait!” Brains cries, heart in his mouth. “B-but I haven’t finished! There m-might be a terrible flaw in the R.O.Bots!”

“Have you found any so far?” Casey asks, arching one eyebrow upward.

“N-no, but–”

“Then I’m sure it’s fine,” Casey cuts him off. “Brains, these bots were developed by some of the finest minds– other than yours– in engineering. We spent billions of dollars building and fine-tuning these things. They have been tested and re-tested and tested again. I know that they are safe.”

Casey sighs, letting her hands fall to her sides. Her posture changes, softens, and she no longer seems quite as imposing as she did just a moment ago. When she continues, her voice is lower, slower. She sounds tired.

“I am not asking for your approval because I think that we missed something. I am asking for your approval because I want to put International Rescue at ease when we launch. God knows they need some of that, right about now.”

Brains can understand that, though it smarts to hear that his opinion is not actually necessary.

“My preliminary scans show no g-glaring faults in the b-bots,” Brains says. It’s as close to ‘I approve’ as he can give her right now. 

It seems that Casey understands that, because her lips quirk oh-so-slightly and she nods. 

“I see,” she says. “By the way, have you spoken to him yet? Scott, I mean.”

“No,” Brains answers. He’s heard updates, of course, but nothing directly from Scott himself. Which isn’t surprising, considering Virgil’s distraught phone call last Thursday. Breathless, painful-sounding sobs, the same words repeated again and again: he forgot, Hiram, he forgot us, he doesn’t know me, he doesn’t know anything, he forgot it all. 

Scott probably has no idea that Brains exists.

It’s a sobering thought.

The potential dissolution of International Rescue is one thing. An unpleasant what-if that might never come to pass, but that Brains could withstand if it should. The loss of one of his closest friendships… well, that’s another. 

Scott may have been Brains’ employer, but he’d been very different from any of the men Brains had previously worked for, including Jeff. There had been no awkward hierarchy between them: at times it had almost felt as though Brains were in charge, even though Scott’s signature was on all the cheques. They’d spent countless hours tinkering in the hangar in amicable silence, countless more engaged in easygoing, lighthearted conversation. Playful arguments about what music ought to be played during maintenance. Grim warnings about whatever Mrs Tracy was cooking upstairs. 

Many memories, most of them pleasant. And, more than likely, entirely non-existent for Scott.

Brains takes a breath. If those days are behind him, never to return, then there is only one course of action. He must do for Scott exactly as Scott once did for him: warmly and eagerly drag him into the fold of friendship.

Well, all right. Perhaps Brains isn’t the kind of person to drag anybody anywhere, much less eagerly. He’s more likely to quietly invite. And he shall.

“I see,” Colonel Casey says, her sombre voice jerking Brains from his thoughts. 

She looks sad. Sad and exhausted, with slumped shoulders and dull, far-away eyes. 

“Have you?” Brains asks. 

Colonel Casey shakes her head. 

“I haven’t,” she says, her voice tight, her brows furrowed. “I won’t. Not until Samuel White is rotting for the rest of his life in a jail cell. Not until Jeff’s boys are safe .” 

It takes a moment to recall the name. Scott’s attacker. 

“I see,” Brains murmurs, mostly because he doesn’t know what else to say. Machines are his speciality, not people. 

It’s probably a good thing that she hasn’t spoken to Scott yet, if his amnesia is as severe as Virgil thinks. Brains has never been very good at reading people, but he knows that she was a very good friend of Jeff’s, that she’s an aunt in all but blood to the Tracy boys. If Brains feels upset at the thought of losing Scott’s friendship, then he can only imagine how much worse the Colonel must feel.

Thankfully, Colonel Casey’s watch bleeps, saving Brains from having to expend any further energy on social skills.

“The cargo plane is ready to relaunch,” she says. “I’m heading out with them. The next plane should arrive at zero six hundred hours. In the meantime, there are several units patrolling the  island, as well as the surrounding sky and sea. If you notice anything amiss, don’t hesitate to call me. No matter how small, you understand? We don’t know what the Hood is up to these days.”

“Yes, m-ma’am.”

“Good,” Colonel Casey straightens, clasping her hands behind her back. It’s as though her face is a mask, now “Then I’ll call Virgil and tell him the good news: International Rescue have backup.”

Brains steps aside as Colonel Casey sweeps past him, leaving the workshop. 

“G-goodbye, Colonel,” he manages. Beside him, MAX bleeps, rotating one of his grippers in an approximate facsimile of a wave. 

“Goodbye, you two,” Colonel Casey calls over her shoulder. 

As the colonel’s footsteps start to fade, Brains casts a critical eye over the remains of his workshop. There’s a lot. He’ll keep running scans of the R.O.Bot, just in case, but even discounting that equipment… there’s a lot to pack up. 

Brains sighs, turning to MAX. 

“How about another c-cup of tea?”

Chapter Text

John is already sitting in the kitchen, nursing a cup of coffee, when Virgil stumbles in at half past six. The sun hasn’t risen yet, but the skies outside the window have started to turn a dim blue-grey near the horizon. 

“Another meeting?” Virgil yawns, making a beeline for the coffee machine on the counter. There’s a full two inches of dark, caffeinated goodness in the pot, and it smells like heaven.

“European manufacturing partners,” John replies. “Essen, Lille, Glasgow and Tallinn. Technically I didn’t have to be present, but with everything happening lately…” 

Virgil nods. Scott’s recovery is only half the problem they face. The other half is presenting and maintaining the image that the Tracy name is as strong as it ever was, that International Rescue will be business-as-usual as soon as they’re off vacation. Good image has been a large part of how their family has been so fortunate. That, and Dad’s keen eye for good stock investments.

“Did everything go well?” Virgil asks, opening a cupboard. Where’d he put the oats, again?

“As well as can be expected,” John says. He opens his tablet, brings up a set of graphs on the holographic display. “Sales are going strong, but they needed a little reassurance that I’m the right person to lead until Scott’s better. EOS says they seemed to like me.”

“How does she know that? Is EOS rooting through their emails or something? She knows she’s not supposed to do that, right?”

John doesn’t reply, which usually means ‘yes’. It's too early for this, Virgil thinks, finding the oatmeal in the third cupboard he tries. They've got enough problems as it is without EOS potentially causing more.

"John." 

"What can I say?" John shrugs, apparently deciding to ignore the question entirely. "I'm a people person." 

John is the least people-y person Virgil has ever met, at least whenever he’s not answering calls for help. He closes his eyes, takes a long sip of coffee, and lets out an equally long sigh. 

“I am choosing to believe that EOS is very good at reading body language and that you’ve been channelling your Space Monitor persona in these meetings,” Virgil says. He opens his eyes, squinting at John through the steam of his coffee. 

“I like that choice,” John says, sweetly. And then, in a clear attempt to change the subject: “do you need any help with that?”

“It’s fine,” Virgil replies. He reaches down to the cupboard beside the stove, where the saucepans are. “I’m just making oatmeal. Scott’s having that and some fruit, and I’m gonna eat the same thing. Everybody else can either join us or eat cereal.”

Oatmeal isn’t Virgil’s favourite breakfast. It’s not even in his top ten, and he knows Scott’s not a fan either. It’s sticky and gluey and tasteless, but it’s easy to make and filling and– most importantly– on the dietician’s plan for Scott. Who’s much more likely to eat without complaint if someone else is eating the same as him. 

“In that case, I’ll hide the Froot Loops,” John says, standing up. And then, under his breath: “just about the only thing Scott didn’t lose is his sweet tooth.”

The only thing Scott didn’t lose. That’s true, isn’t it? More or less, anyway. Just about the only time he seems particularly Scott-like is when he’s working on math puzzles, or when he thinks he can sink his teeth into something sweet. Otherwise, he’s far from being his usual self. He’s passive and quiet and weirdly compliant, almost like a stranger stuffed into Scott’s skin. 

Which isn’t too far from the truth, is it? Scott doesn’t remember them. Doesn’t remember anything, save a few scant snapshots. Isn’t that what a stranger is?

Virgil’s mug falls through suddenly-lifeless fingers, clattering onto the counter. It stays mostly upright, but hot coffee splashes into the air, slopping out of the sides as it settles on the granite. 

“Are you okay?” John asks.

“Yeah, I just dropped the cup,” Virgil says, grabbing some paper towels. He mops the worst of the spill up, tossing the wet towels into the composting bin. Thankfully the cup seems unscathed, no chips or cracks in sight. He’s only lost about an inch of caffeinated goodness and what little dignity he still had in John’s eyes.

John gives Virgil a long look, but doesn't pry. 

"You should sleep more," he says, his hand on the pantry door.

“I’d love to,” Virgil replies, and it sounds more venomous than he intends. He clears his throat, takes a sip of his remaining coffee. “It’s hard.”

John doesn’t say anything. He just nods, then looks away before busying himself with his self-imposed task. 

It’s something nobody has really talked about, but Virgil’s pretty sure they’re all struggling the same way. It’s hard to sleep well when there’s so much happening, when their family had such a close call. He’s seen the little strip of light under Grandma’s door when he gets up to use the bathroom in the night. He found Alan sleeping in the living room the other morning, old family holo-vids still playing on the projector– maybe it’d been a bad idea to let him watch those with Scott. Gordon’s been splashing around in the pool at night– even when he’s trying to be quiet, he’s noisy– and John’s got his bizarre sleep pattern. 

Maybe things will be better at Gran Roca. 

Virgil busies himself with prep: oats go into the pan, with milk and water. Fruit gets sliced, and then he checks the folder he got from the dietician again, as though he hasn’t memorised the damn thing by now. Today’s menu consists of a suspiciously easy-looking salmon salad for lunch, and a hearty vegan stew for dinner. Fruit for snacks or dessert. And then, in the dietician’s neat block letters: keep close eye on patient hydration levels. Providing flavoured water and jell-o will help.

Virgil opens the fridge, grabs the ingredients he needs to prep, and gets to work. It’s simple enough, just a little chopping and marinating, a few cans of beans and tomatoes thrown into the industrial-sized slow-cooker that somehow still works even after all these years.

All the days in the folder menu are similarly crafted: nutritionally dense and filled with foods associated with healthy brain function and a bunch of other things Virgil forgot to write down in the last meeting. The dietician mentioned something about calories, too– a balance between Scott’s lowered physical activity levels and the amount of energy he needs to heal. 

And, speaking of physical activity, that’s another thing Virgil needs to talk to the physiotherapist about– his brother is going to be royally pissed off if he loses his current fitness levels by the time he regains his full faculties, but he can barely walk unaided. Scott’s normal exercise routine– running, swimming, climbing, and getting his ass kicked by Kayo– is out of the question.

Virgil’s phone alarm beeps, jerking him out of his thoughts. He wipes his hands on a clean dishtowel, turns it off. Time to wake Scott. 

John’s vanished in the few minutes Virgil was distracted– did he go back to bed? It’s hard to tell– and Virgil pads up the stairs. Grandma’s door is open, and he can just about see her fluffy purple bathrobe in the doorway of the larger bathroom. Must be brushing her teeth or washing her face. Gordon and Alan’s door is closed.

Rousing Scott is harder than it’s supposed to be– he’s always been a light sleeper, and his stint in the GDF only made him worse. But at least it’s easier than it was two weeks ago, when he was still in that permanently confused, exhausted state.

Scott doesn’t wake up when Virgil opens the door or leans over the bed to open the curtains, but he does stir when Virgil shakes his shoulder.

“Morning, Scott. Time to get up.”

“Urgh,” Scott groans, levering himself up against the headrest, instead of just getting out of bed like he's supposed to.

“You want a shower? It’s free right now.”

Mostly because the doctors agreed that a set schedule would help maximise his recovery. Everybody knows not to use the shower closest to Scott’s room until after he goes downstairs to eat. 

“Yeah,” Scott says, the muscles in his jaw visibly tense.

“Headache?”

“A little.”

“Hold still.”

It takes only about fifteen seconds to peel off the old painkillers and apply new ones to Scott’s skin. Five more for them to start to kick in: the tense muscles start to relax, no longer visible below the skin. By the time Virgil opens the wardrobe, Scott almost looks at ease.

Virgil grabs a pair of black sweats from the pants railing, thankful that all the clothes he ordered a few days ago had fit Scott pretty much as they should. Returning them would have been a pain, mostly because there’s already so much to do. 

“Okay, I’ve got some choices for you today. Red or blue shirt?"

“Blue,” Scott says, through a muffled yawn. 

“Great choice. Blue’s your favourite– did I tell you that?” Virgil snags a tee, a lightweight cotton in bright IR blue, and a black fleece, laying them in the crook of his elbow.

“Might’ve mentioned it,” Scott mutters, rising from the bed. Virgil pauses, watching him carefully from the corner of his eye. 

Does he need help?

No. Scott’s balance seems okay today. He shuffles along, barely touching the wall.

When the bathroom door closes with its characteristic clunking noise, Virgil quickly remakes the bed, laying out Scott’s clothes on the sheets just as Mom used to do when they were really small. He grabs a pair of underwear from the drawer, then opens the sock drawer, and –

“Put out the ones I got him!” Gordon’s voice rings out from the doorway. 

A lesser man might have startled or dropped whatever he was carrying, but Virgil has spent twenty-odd years in Gordon’s close proximity. It'll take more than a shout to throw him off-balance.

“I’m not giving Scott fluffy neon octopus socks to wear,” he says, fetching a pair of perfectly normal black socks instead. 

“But they were his birthday gift,” Gordon says, and Virgil doesn’t have to look at him to know he’s pouting.

“They're not gonna fit inside any of Scott’s shoes, except the old winter boots that live in Gran Roca,” Virgil replies. “And besides, didn’t Scott say he didn’t want any birthday gifts?”

Scott’s gift is still sitting on Virgil’s engineering workbench on the island: a small mechanical music box containing a soothing instrumental lullaby, in its final testing-and-tweaking stage when Scott set off for New York.

“Killjoy,” Gordon says, and Virgil can hear the grin that must be stretched across his face. “Okay, fine. You want me on escort duty?"

“Please,” Virgil replies. Someone needs to stay within earshot of Scott, in case he falls or has a seizure or something. It's looking less and less likely by the day, but... well, it's better to be safe than sorry.

"Then I'll see you downstairs with Sir Scoff-a-Lot," Gordon replies, his footsteps retreating before Virgil can get another word in edgeways.

Virgil sighs, tossing the socks and underwear onto the bed and setting Scott's comb near the mirror. He cracks open Scott's window a few inches, then picks up the half-empty plastic water glass sitting on the bedside table. It needs replacing and washing out.

When he leaves the room, the hallway is silent. Grandma is long gone, and the only other person upstairs seems to be Gordon, who's lounging on his bed, playing with his phone. There's no other noise, save for the shower running, and… there’s a sound mingling with the sound of the running water. 

A voice. Male. Not singing, but humming. It’s barely audible, muffled by the water and the walls, but he’d know Scott’s voice anywhere.

Virgil pauses in the hall. He knows that song. 

What is it? It’s familiar, but not recent.

And then he realises. Mom used to play it on the piano, years and years ago. One of her own creations, she said. Scott’s not humming the whole tune, just a series of distinctive notes. Virgil closes his eyes and counts the seconds. 

One… two… three… four… five… 

The humming falters. And then, moments later, it starts again. 

Virgil resets his mental count, hardly daring to draw breath until Scott falters again, on the edge of his hearing.

Fifteen. Fifteen seconds. 

Fifteen seconds of Mom’s old song. 

It’s not much, but it’s better than nothing, isn’t it? 

Virgil smiles to himself, then heads back down the hall, toward the stairs. There's a lot to do, but it's going to be a good day. He can feel it.

Chapter Text

In all fairness, the day starts well enough. As well as a Thursday can, anyway. 

Lots of people say that Monday is the worst day of the week. Some people think it’s Wednesday. Some Friday. Some even argue Sunday. But Virgil is convinced that the worst day of the week is Thursday. Just past the middle of the week, when you’re exhausted by everything that passed beforehand, but the weekend is still tantalisingly out of reach.

Thursday. The day that makes Virgil very glad he doesn’t have a regular nine-to-five job. Or would, if not for the sheer amount of stuff he has to do now. 

Virgil sighs, mentally running through his to-do list. It’s a long one. Providing Brains– or rather, MAX via Brains– with an inventory list of things to pack and send to Gran Roca, ordering groceries to be delivered upon their arrival, checking and negotiating security arrangements with Kayo, reading through a box of briefing documents which are supposed to contain all the stuff Virgil is going to need to know in order to perform as Commander, finalising the temporary re-allocation of personnel duties while Scott is out of action, and all that’s only the International Rescue side of things. 

Taking care of Scott requires a lot– Virgil has an extensive list of tasks and information he needs to keep updated, written in his own neat penmanship– and there are a ton of social niceties he needs to get on, too. At least part of the Tracy family’s success is because they’re known for being so kind and friendly– John’s heading over to the local Tracy Industries headquarters tomorrow, Uncle Franklin invited them to a community barbecue on Saturday, and pretty much all of Scott’s old school friends have been clogging the house phone’s answer machine with well-wishes and greetings. He should probably invite a few over to say hi at some point.

It’s a lot. But it’s not forever. Scott’s half-audible humming from the bathroom is proof of that. Virgil can keep up with this a while longer. He must. 

By the time Virgil heads back downstairs, the sun is shining brightly through the window, illuminating everything with a gentle golden glow. Grandma greets him with a smile, midway through putting the coffee pot on a second time. While Virgil busies himself with the stove, Alan’s nice enough to fetch the bowls and spoons they’re going to use.

A bleary-eyed Scott appears in the kitchen, accompanied by a cheerful Gordon, just as Virgil’s dishing up the oatmeal. Grandma opts for granola, as does Gordon once it becomes clear that his customary celery-cinnamon toast crunch has somehow vanished. Alan, always eager to emulate his older brothers, begs for a bowl of oatmeal, too. 

“Okay,” Virgil says, squirting a couple teaspoons of honey into each bowl. “Your job is to put the toppings on. Everybody gets a half-cup of berries and a quarter cup of chopped nuts, got it?”

“Got it!” Alan nods, already reaching for the Tupperware and measurement cups Virgil set aside earlier.

Grandma sets a coffee in front of Scott, who picks it up with hands that seem slightly less unsteady than yesterday. It’s not the syrupy comfort-drink Gordon’s been making lately: just a dash of half-and-half and one of Grandma’s diet sweeteners. Scott doesn’t say anything, but his face falls after his first sip and it’s clear he’s disappointed. 

“Thank you, Grandma,” is what Scott says, sounding almost like himself– they’re all the same when it comes to Grandma, never wanting to hurt her feelings. He looks better these days, too: the bruising around his eyes is barely noticeable, a slight yellowish sheen. 

Breakfast is mostly quiet. Alan and Gordon talk about everything and nothing, while Grandma makes pleasant conversation with Scott, and Virgil mostly thinks about his to-do list. Halfway through Virgil’s second coffee, John reappears and pours himself a bowl of granola. 

“I thought I’d better deal with the stashes, too,” he whispers, taking a seat beside Virgil. “I think I got them all.”

Everybody has something they prefer to keep for themselves, away from the prying eyes and probing fingers of others. Virgil has more skin and haircare than he’d ever willingly admit to using in public. Scott has– or had– candy and snack stashes hidden just about everywhere he’s ever lived. Virgil hadn’t thought that Scott had anything left in this house. They only visit once a year, at Grandma’s insistence: Uncle Frank still lives in town and Thanksgiving is a full-family affair.

“Probably a good idea,” Virgil murmurs in reply. They’ve got enough to deal with right now without Scott finding one of his old stashes and making himself sick from expired food.

“What’s a good idea?” Scott asks, glancing up from his bowl. Virgil tries not to wince– clearly he’s not as quiet as he was trying to be.

“Um… we were thinking of going stargazing later,” John pipes up, quick-thinking even at this early hour. “If the weather stays clear, we should be able to see Venus and maybe Jupiter without a telescope.”

“John has a lot of telescopes,” Virgil adds. “Did I tell you? He loves stars. He even has a doctorate in astrophysics.”

“Astrophysics?” Scott asks, turning his attention to John. “What was your dissertation topic?”

“I had a theory about a new way to discover stars using the background radiation of the universe,” John answers. “It turned out that there wasn’t any evidence to back up my idea, and I didn’t manage to discover any new stars using that method. But it was still a valuable study, enough for me to get my degree, and I managed to find a new quasar a few years later using more conventional methods.”

“A quasar?” Scott’s eyebrows rise, the corners of his mouth quirking slightly. “What, there’s a… a black hole called ‘John’ fifty million miles away?”

“It’s called ‘Lucy’, actually,” John tells him, with a shrug and a smile. “After Mom. And it’s a little further away than fifty million miles.”

Mom. The brightest part of the Tracy family’s personal universe. A quasar is the perfect homage to her. Virgil knows very little about the stars: he prefers keeping his boots on the earth, though dipping into space occasionally is a heck of a lot of fun. But if he remembers right, a quasar is supposed to be the brightest class of celestial objects, right?

Mom. That was Mom. 

That’s not to say that Dad wasn’t. It’s not to say that any of them are lesser, either. But Mom brought everybody together in a way nobody else could, always knew how to comfort, how to cheer. And when she passed, it was like the light itself had vanished.

With Scott successfully distracted, breakfast is a breeze. He’s interested in John’s info-dumping, apparently following along easily as he eats. And then, as Gordon and Alan bicker and blow bubbles at the sink, and John excuses himself and vanishes again, Virgil fetches the small bucket of tennis balls that currently lives on the utility room counter.

“Not this again,” Scott groans, grimacing at the sight of the bucket as Virgil places it on the table.

“You know the drill,” Virgil says.

“Do we have to? You know I’m bad at it.”

“Physio’s orders,” Virgil replies, with a shrug. “Three times a day, three minutes minimum. It’ll help you get better faster.”

“Give me one, too, won’t you?” Grandma asks, and Virgil obliges. He sets one ball on the table in front of her, and one in front of Scott. He brings up a timer on his cellphone and sets that down between them. 

“Ready?” 

Scott sighs, but scoops up the ball. He nods. 

“I guess.”

The next three minutes are excruciating. The task is simple: throw the tennis ball with one hand, catch it with the other. Repeat until the timer goes off.

Virgil passes his ball easily between his hands, while Grandma does so much more slowly and carefully– her eyes and hands aren’t quite what they used to be. Scott, on the other hand, is a different story. He fails to catch the ball much more frequently than he successfully passes it, frowning harder and harder each time the ball hits the table and he clumsily grabs it again. His mouth tightens, lips disappearing, and every muscle Virgil can see tenses.

Finally, the last few seconds slip away. Scott lets the ball fall to the table, settling back in his chair, looking thoroughly miserable.

“Can we get a new physio? I don't think this one is working."

“Not yet,” Grandma says, squeezing his shoulder. She gives the balls back to Virgil, who stows them away again. “We have to give this time to work.”

“I did give it time,” Scott whinges, sounding almost exactly like himself. Scott’s nothing if not impatient at the best of times. “I gave it two whole days.”

“You have brain damage, Scotty,” Grandma gently reminds him. “That’s not an easy fix. It’s going to take more time than that. We can talk about it more at the end of the month.” 

Scott huffs, but nods. 

“Fine.”

And that’s Gordon’s cue to waltz in, still slightly sudsy, and whisk Scott off for some carefully-supervised fun. Alan follows a few moments later, significantly less sudsy but no less enthusiastic. 

“Hey, turn that frown upside down,” Grandma says, once they’re out of earshot. She leans across the table, squeezing Virgil’s hand. “He’s getting better. It’s just slow-going, that’s all.”

“I know,” Virgil lets out a long breath. “He was humming in the shower earlier. Mom’s song.”

“The whole thing?” Grandma whispers, leaning in excitedly, her eyes wide behind her Coke-bottle glasses. 

“No, just a few seconds,” Virgil admits. “But it was definitely one of her songs. I’d know it anywhere.”

“See?” Grandma beams at him. “And did you notice anything odd today?”

“I don’t know,” Virgil glances longingly at the coffee machine on the nearby counter. “I only had two coffees, I’m not awake enough for this.” 

“That caffeine habit is terrible for your health,” Grandma says, shaking her head. “No. I meant about Scott’s behaviour. Didn’t you notice how annoyed he was? He actually complained. You know he wouldn’t have done that last week. He’s not back to himself, sure. But he’s getting there. That whining about the tennis balls was the most Scott thing I’ve seen since you let him inhale all that cake on his birthday."

Virgil nods, already feeling better. 

Grandma’s right. Grandma’s always right. 

The morning passes quickly: there’s never enough time. Grandma decides to do some laundry and re-organising of her bedroom, insistently refusing any of Virgil’s help. A quick question to EOS reveals that John has set himself up in the attic, reading through the reports that used to take so much of Scott’s time. And, with Gordon taking care of Scott and Alan, that means that Virgil has a golden opportunity to cross a few items off his to-do list.

First, he calls Scott’s therapist, mostly to confirm this afternoon’s appointment.

“I’ll call at four-thirty,” Doctor Shou tells him, just as they planned days earlier. He’s been Scott’s therapist for years now, a calming and grounding presence in the wake of Dad’s disappearance. Scott’s always been noticeably more relaxed after their monthly sessions. “Unless there’s an emergency, of course. You remember what we agreed?”

“Yeah,” Virgil counts on his fingers. “Scott needs a private space to speak with you. You’ll remind him of the rules, in case he forgot, and then you’ll do the session. If there’s anything you think might help us care for Scott better, you’ll tell Grandma.”

Normally, divulging the contents of a therapy session without a patient’s consent is a serious breach of privacy and patient rights. But Scott’s case is a little different, between the amnesia and Grandma’s power over his medical care. 

Doctor Shou and Godfrey met with her last week to discuss it– Virgil doesn’t know all the details, but the short version is that she gets to know some things from the therapy sessions that she normally wouldn’t. And, by extension, that means Virgil gets to know some of those details, too. Not everything, of course: Grandma’s worked in healthcare too long and cares too much about Scott’s emotional welfare to deprive him of privacy. But a few details. Maybe it’ll be enough.

“That’s right,” Doctor Shou says. “Did your grandmother tell you about the goal of this week’s sessions?”

“Um... I think she said you’re just establishing rapport right now, since he doesn’t remember working with you. And then later you’ll work on the memory and identity thing together.”

“Scott has a long journey ahead of him,” Doctor Shou says. “But I have high hopes. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“No, that was all. Thanks, Doctor. See you later,” Virgil says, eyeing the clock on the wall. 

He ends the call, mentally calculating the afternoon’s schedule. Scott is probably going to fall asleep an hour or two after lunch. Virgil’s going to need to seek him out and make sure he’s awake and ready for the hour-long session. Dinner’s at six, and Grandma will probably watch soap operas with Scott while they’re waiting for the sun to set. Virgil might be able to rope Gordon or John into helping him set up some blankets and chairs outside, maybe some flasks of hot chocolate, too. 

The rest of the evening is pretty simple: the skies should be dark enough to start stargazing by around eight-thirty. If Scott falls asleep during the star-gazing session, Virgil can easily carry him back indoors. He’s supposed to be asleep by ten anyway, so no big deal.

The rest of the morning is mostly spent in the kitchen, where Virgil pores over the security details Kayo provided the other day. It’s an extensive plan– and in some places perhaps a little excessive. Do they really need a full security patrol living in the guest house at Gran Roca? Twelve guards seems like a lot, considering the house grounds consists of less than three acres, and they have a state-of-the-art electronic security system– assisted by EOS– keeping an eye on the property.

Virgil glances out of the window. Scott’s relaxing on the grassy lawn outside, poring over– what is that, a book? A magazine? –with Alan. Gordon’s on his phone, talking animatedly to someone Virgil suspects is either Lady Penelope or one of his marine biologist friends.

Virgil is in charge now. He’s got to protect their family. A bunch of guards feels excessive, but if that’s what it takes to ensure that what happened to Scott– or worse– never happens again, then that’s what needs to happen. Virgil closes the plan and sends it back to Kayo, with a short message giving her the green light.

An e-mail arrives at ten-thirty. Attached are two documents: a press release, dated tomorrow, stating that the GDF are going to use automated rescue bots to help those International Rescue currently cannot, and a report written by Brains acknowledging that the bots appear safe and likely to be effective. 

Commander,

I hope this helps. We’ll use the R.O.Bots to alleviate the burden on International Rescue for as long as you need- please find attached Dr Hackenbecker's report.  Let my staff know if there’s anything else we can do to help you. 

Regards

Col. Valerie Casey

It’s strange to read something so formal and stilted from Aunt Val. It’s probably because he’s the leader of International Rescue now. 

Virgil’s stomach sinks, and he glances outside again. Scott and the others are gone. He sighs, and turns back to the e-mail, typing out a short reply. 

Colonel,

Thank you for this information.

He hesitates, unsure how to continue. There’s not much he can say about the robots, except that if Brains checked them, they’re probably fine.

I am sure these bots will be of great help to us all.

Virgil pauses. Is it appropriate to give her an update on Scott’s health? Probably not, right?

I’ll let you know if International Rescue needs any further assistance.

Regards

Commander Virgil Tracy

And… sent. Time to move on to another task. 

He settles on reading the Commander briefing documents. The bulk of them seem to have been originally compiled by Dad, with some input from Casey, Godfrey, and Uncle Lee, with a few additional pages and annotations written in Scott’s confident shorthand. 

Virgil can’t help but wonder what they were thinking when they wrote these. Was Dad envisioning giving these to Scott in-person? Was Scott thinking about his own funeral when he scrawled those extra notes? Or did he have something more mundane, like retirement, in mind?

The documents are boring and dense, but wholly necessary. Although Virgil’s experienced with conducting rescue operations, and knows the island base and his ‘Bird inside-out, there’s a hell of a lot more to being Commander than that. 

There are pages upon pages containing summaries of relevant laws and seemingly endless flow-charts explaining the ways in which the GDF and International Rescue are permitted to interact with one another, as well as communications protocols, safety information, logistics reports, and more. Scott’s additions mostly consist of updated information on new technologies. 

Is Virgil going to have to write his own additions for this thing? Is he going to be leader for that long?

A loud knocking jerks Virgil out of his thoughts. 

“Hello?” a muffled voice calls. Older. Female. A familiar Kansas twang. “Anybody home?”

Virgil shuts the projector down with a quick wave and hurries to the door. 

It’s got to be someone local, someone they’re familiar with. If it were anybody dangerous or unknown, Kayo’s people would have stopped them before they got to the door.

“Hello,” he greets the visitor, throwing open the door with a friendly smile. 

The woman at the door is a little older than Virgil remembers, with silver starting to streak through her brown bob, but he’d know her anywhere. Mrs Thompson, from the neighbouring farm. She’s wearing a fluffy green cardigan and clutches a large picnic basket in her hands.

“Hi, there, sweetie,” Mrs Thompson says, with a kind smile. “I heard you boys were back in town. I baked up a few cookies for you yesterday, in case you needed anything.” 

“Oh, Ma’am, you didn’t have to do that,” Virgil says, politely as he can as he takes the basket from her. It’s pretty heavy for ‘a few cookies’. Knowing Mrs Thompson, there’s probably at least one pie or quiche in there too, and probably some kind of bread. “Thank you so much.”

“Of course I had to,” Mrs Thompson replies. “You might be awfully busy these days, but we’re still neighbours.”

The Thompsons had been very good friends back in the day, and not just when things were looking up for the Tracy name. Virgil remembers her bringing tuna casserole and letting Grandma cry on her shoulder after Grandpa Grant passed. She’d done similar things after all their losses, really. 

Same could be said for a lot of people in this town. It’s nice to see that, even after all these years, the Tracy family are still part of the community.

“Would you like to come in for some coffee? I’m sure Grandma would love to see you.”

“Well, if it’s no trouble…” 

Virgil steps aside and lets her in, and Mrs Thompson immediately makes her way to the kitchen, where she starts unloading her basket: as Virgil suspected, she brought way more than just a few cookies. There are jars of jelly and preserves, what looks like a sourdough loaf, a box of eggs and what looks suspiciously like a casserole.

“Oh, don’t frown like that,” Mrs Thompson tuts. “We had all this spare, nobody’s going without on your behalf. If anything, you’re doing us a favour by taking these. My girls are laying again, so it’s an egg-pocalypse in my henhouse right now."

Virgil gives up. There’s no point arguing with a woman like Mrs Thompson.

“Thank you, ma’am.”

A brief phone-call summons Grandma, who squeals with joy at the sight of her friend. 

“Jenny! Oh, you didn’t need to do all that for us!”

“It was no trouble, Sally, I was just telling your boy over there…” 

Virgil sets the coffee machine on again with a fresh set of grounds, setting a few of Mrs Thompson’s cookies on a nice plate as Mrs Thompson and Grandma catch up. There’s a lot to say– as the principal pilot for non-rescue stuff, Virgil’s well aware that they haven’t seen each other in person in months.

“Try a cookie, Virgie,” Grandma tells him. “They’re delicious, Jenny, I don’t know how you do it… One of these days you’ll have to tell me your recipe.”

Virgil has to admit that the cookies look good, though he privately doubts that a new cookie recipe is going to do much for Grandma’s baking skills. The cookies are a nice reminder, though. They’re not alone in all this.

It can be hard to remember, living on an isolated island, that their family is part of a community. 

A small, specific community, with Penny and Parker and Kayo and Brains. A larger community of friends and allies, like Aunt– like Colonel Casey, Doctor Moffat, the Penderghasts, Tycho Reeves, and so many more. A wider community of long-term friends and acquaintances, like their friends and neighbours here. Their colleagues and employees at Tracy Industries. Scott’s medical team. The endless, almost overwhelming messages of hope they’ve been receiving, the electronic well-wishes and get-well cards. The emergency and hospital workers in New York– across the world, really. Every single person International Rescue ever rescued or assisted.

They’re not alone.

Virgil quickly wipes his eyes, pours the coffees, and lets Grandma push a delicious, chocolate-chip cookie into his hands when he sits down at the table.

“Will you be staying for lunch, Mrs. Thompson?” he asks.

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly intrude any more than I already am,” she exclaims.

It's not an intrusion, not at all.

One coffee turns into two.

John reappears at twelve, ready to help Virgil with lunch, and that's when Mrs Thompson excuses herself. Grandma escorts her to the door, the two of them talking loudly and enthusiastically the whole way.

John squints at Virgil, tilting his head slightly.

"You seem different. Did something happen?"

"No," Virgil shakes his head. "I was just reminded of something, that's all."

"A good something or a bad something?"

Virgil can't hold back a grim.

"A good something," he says. "A very, very good something."

They're not alone.

Chapter Text

Lunch goes well. 

The salmon is overcooked, because neither Virgil or John actually know how to cook fish, but at least nobody complains about it. Grandma has nothing but compliments, while Gordon raises an eyebrow, but  keeps his mouth shut. 

“How was your morning?” Grandma asks, once most of the plates have been emptied..

“Good,” Scott replies. He’s eating better than Virgil hoped: the salmon flakes apart without needing a knife, so he can mostly just stab and scoop with his fork. Some of the salad leaves are giving Scott a little trouble, though– next time he’ll chop them a little smaller.

“We were all kinda tired, so we just hung out outside,” Alan adds. Then he beams. “We played Uno for a while and I showed Scott some of my astronomy books, too. You know, for the stargazing tonight. He remembered some of the constellations!” 

“Oh?” John looks up from his meal, suddenly interested. “Which ones?”

“Ursa major,” Scott mumbles. 

“And the Big Dipper,” Alan adds.

“They’re the same,” Scott says, shifting in his seat. He’s not looking at anybody, eyes fixed on the table.

“Technically they’re different,” Alan argues. “And you spotted Arcturus, too.”

“It’s the brightest star in the hemisphere, I’d have to be blind to miss it,” Scott says. 

“But you knew it!” Alan insists, and then he grins at John. “We’re gonna do great at star-gazing.”

“You know stargazing isn’t a competition, right? You can’t win at it,” John says, a fond smile playing at his mouth.

“You can if you do it right,” Gordon appears next to Alan, nudging his shoulder. "What, are you gonna make me wash all these dishes by myself?" 

“No…” Alan says, in the long, drawn-out way that means ‘I was hoping you’d forget’, and he turns to look at Gordon with the devastatingly adorable puppy-eyes he’s spent the last seventeen years developing. 

“Sure,” Gordon pokes him again, then gathers the dishes. “C’mon, those eyes won’t work on me. I invented that look.”

“Actually, I think Virgil invented it,” John says, dryly. 

That’s probably true, although Virgil doesn’t really remember it. He’s only ever had one big brother to try twisting around his little finger, and these days he tends to fall back on reason or straight-up bribery whenever he needs to coerce Scott.

And speaking of coercing Scott… 

“Yeah, those puppy-dog eyes won’t work on me either. Go help Gordon, Scott and I have to go do some physio.”

“The tennis balls again?” Scott groans. 

“Sorry,” Virgil says, with a shrug. “You know we have to do it. I’ll get the bucket.”

Grandma insists on doing the ball-catching exercise with them, just as she has since they first started doing it a few days ago. John brings out his tablet again and pretends not to watch, but his eyes are fixed on Scott’s hands the whole time. 

“I’m going back to bed,” John says, when Virgil puts the balls away again. “Do you need anything before I head up?”

“We’re fine, dear,” Grandma says.

“It’s not even one,” Scott says, frowning at John. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” John promises. “I’m completely fine. I’m always on-call for work, so I have a weird sleep schedule, that’s all.”

Scott frowns harder at that, tilting his head. 

“Always on-call? What’s your job?” he asks, as though he doesn't know. 

Which makes perfect sense, because he doesn't know. Just because he's getting better and remembering songs and facts about the world doesn't mean he remembers them… and Virgil very carefully cuts off that thought right there. That's not something he can think about again.

How much did they tell Scott about International Rescue? Virgil can't remember. There's so many gaps to fill in. He should be  keeping a list- they need to know if Scott starts forgetting stuff again, or if he's not learning as fast as he should.

“Emergency services dispatch,” John manages, looking distinctly paler than he did a few moments ago. Maybe he forgot for a few minutes too. “For International Rescue.”

“International– hang on, was I  forcing you on-call all the time?” Scott blinks, hand halfway to his mouth. His brow furrows, but his eyes widen and his mouth drops open. “For real?”

“No, it wasn’t like that,” John says, immediately, but it’s too little too late. Scott’s already fixated on Virgil.

“You’re in charge now, right?” he demands. “You’ve gotta take him off those twenty-four hour shifts.”

“I know,” Virgil says, as soothingly as he can. “We’ll talk about it before we go to Gran Roca and decide on a schedule that works for everybody.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to switch to a regular sleep pattern, Johnny? I’m sure I have some friends who could help,” Grandma asks, and Virgil’s not sure if she’s genuinely curious or wanting to distract Scott.

“No, it’s okay,” John says. “I like the way I sleep now.”

“Well, if you’re sure, then you’d better hop on up to bed. Do you want somebody to wake you for dinner?”

“No, EOS is going to wake me up before then,” John replies, and he stands, ready to make a hasty retreat. 

“Well, if you’re sure…” Grandma rises, too, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “Goodnight, dear. Well, good afternoon, anyway.”

“Good afternoon to you, too,” John smiles at her, and then he’s gone, kitchen door swinging shut behind him. 

Scott frowns at the door for a moment, and then he turns his attention to Virgil. 

“What was that?” he demands. 

“What was what?” 

“The ‘oh, we’ll talk about it’ thing,” Scott says, honest-to-god glowering at Virgil. “There’s a problem . We should fix it now, not later.”

Thankfully, Grandma swoops in to help Virgil out.

“Scott, you’re right, but you’re also missing a lot of context,” Grandma lays a hand on his shoulder. “I know you’re worried, but there isn’t a force in heaven or earth that could make John do anything he doesn’t damn well want to.”

Except maybe centrifugal force, Virgil thinks, taking the opportunity to put the tennis balls back to their rightful place. Although that said, the simulated gravity on Five is less of a ‘John doesn’t want to use it’ as it is ‘John is well aware of the physical problems too much time in zero-g can cause’. 

When Virgil returns to the kitchen, Scott and the younger two aren’t there any more.

“They’re in the living room,” Grandma tells him, halfway through wiping down the counters. “Gordon said they were going to watch TV and play board games.”

TV and board games. That seems safe enough. 

The afternoon passes quickly. Grandma excuses herself– Virgil’s not the only one with a lot to do, although Grandma’s to-do list mostly consists of keeping their friends and family in the loop, plus whatever chores she’s decided the housekeeping bots aren’t capable of doing right. In the meantime, Virgil opens up the commander training files again.

Around two-thirty, Alan comes in to fetch some more water bottles from the larder. 

“Scott’s are in the fridge,” Virgil reminds him, and Alan takes a detour to snag an apple-flavoured water. 

“How come he gets flavoured water and I don’t?” Alan asks. 

“Psychology,” Virgil replies. “We need to keep Scott hydrated, and most people drink more if you give them something sweet. I don’t need to trick you into drinking more water.”

“Well, I dunno,” Alan says, pouting. “Maybe you do. I might be super dehydrated.” He points to a patch of skin on his cheek. “Look, do you see this acne?”

Honestly, not really. Alan’s been pretty lucky in that department. Much luckier than Virgil ever was, or John for that matter.

“You’re seventeen,” Virgil says, raising an eyebrow. “Everybody has acne when they’re seventeen.”

Alan raises an eyebrow back, trying and failing to combine that with his signature puppy-eyes. Virgil sighs. 

“You can have one,” he says. “Don’t make it a habit, okay?”

Alan fist-pumps the air and scampers away. 

“Thanks, Virge!” 

Virgil settles back into his studies, interrupted only by an e-mail update from Brains: all Thunderbirds, save Five, have been successfully moved to the island, and the final shipment of vehicles should arrive by midnight Kansas time.

That’s a relief. They probably won’t move Five, just retract the space elevator so that in the unlikely event of intruders on the island, they won’t be able to get up there. Not that he thinks EOS would let any potential intruders into Five– it's more that having to take Three and rescue said intruders from the elevator would be incredibly annoying. Especially if there were a real emergency in space that needed Three. 

Virgil's hand hovers over the 'reply' button longer than it really should have. He'd like to call Brains, spend a couple hours chatting away amicably, talking through whatever problems come to mind. But they're not in the same timezone anymore— it can’t be later than eight AM on the island, and Virgil's pretty sure his friend has probably slept less than him the last couple weeks. And everything on Virgil's mind is so much heavier than it used to be: less 'Gordon broke my hairdryer, how should I get him back?' and more 'I'm scared that the old Scott might not ever come back'.

It's a stupid fear to have– everybody says the prognosis is good– but it's there, ever-present. Like his own shadow. Virgil can deal with the idea of Scott always having the co-ordination problems he's struggling with, but the idea of Scott never recalling his own favourite colour or his time in International Rescue, or worse, never knowing his family– 

Virgil sucks in a deep, grounding breath and grits his teeth. 

No. He’s not going to think about that. 

It’s too raw. 

Instead, Virgil takes a deep breath and hits the ‘reply’ button, sending a quick ‘thanks’ and attaching the first of the inventory lists he’s been able to create: everything he and Scott are going to need for an extended stay at Grand Roca. He’ll send the other lists as quickly as he’s able to make them. Moments later, Brains sends a reply: MAX will get to work on packing. 

Good. One thing down, ninety-nine more to go. 

Virgil makes himself another coffee before starting his studies again, and the hours pass him by. The sunlight outside dims, the overcast sky starting to look an unpleasant grey. The quiet of the house is regularly punctuated by laughter and muffled voices from the living room. The smell of the crockpot stew starts to fill the kitchen: rich, tomatoey, and just a hint of something spicy.

At quarter past four, Virgil heads over to the living room. As he suspected, Scott’s stretched out on the couch, dead to the world. Someone’s laid one of Grandpa Grant’s old blankets over him. Gordon and Alan play chess on the coffee table– or rather, Gordon quietly coaches Alan through a game. 

“Hey, V,” Gordon is the first to spot Virgil, and stands to greet him. He jabs a thumb in Scott’s direction. “Sleepyhead’s been down for about forty minutes.”

Virgil nods, then reaches down to shake Scott awake. 

“Hey, Scooter. Time to get up. How’re you feeling?”

Scott mumbles something unintelligible, managing to tangle himself in the blanket as he levers himself up. 

“Your therapist is going to call soon,” Virgil tells him. “How about you drink some water and get ready for him?”

Scott yawns, nods, and lets Virgil push a water bottle into his hand. By the time Doctor Shou calls, they’ve made it to Scott’s room, and Scott’s managed to wake himself up enough to greet the man. 

“Hi,” he says. 

“Nice to see you, Doctor,” Virgil says. “Scott, why don’t you sit down and make yourself comfortable?” 

“Sure,” Scott mutters. 

“Dinner should be just about ready by the time you guys are done,” Virgil says. “When you’re ready, come find me. I’ll be in the next room.”

With that, Virgil leaves, closing the door behind him. He doesn’t go directly to his room, though: he’s sharing with John, who’s probably still asleep. Instead, he heads over to Mom and Dad’s room. 

It looks the same as it always does. It’s a large room, with soft brown carpet and pale patterned wallpaper. Wooden furniture, kept polished and dust-free by a combination of the little dusting and vacuuming bots that keep the house mostly clean, and the housekeeper who comes by monthly. Between two tall windows lies a wide bed, made up with a soft cream comforter and large crocheted blanket and a ton of squishy pillows, as though the people who are supposed to sleep there are going to come back any day now.

Virgil heads directly to the closet. He knows what he’s looking for. Not Mom or Dad’s clothes, still hung up inside dust-covers, but above them. The box on the top shelf, the one Virgil hadn’t been able to reach until his second year of high school. The box that contains all of Mom’s music books and notations. 

Virgil rarely reads music these days. He prefers playing by ear or memory, or composing his own tunes for fun. Playing piano has always been one of Virgil’s favourite ways to unwind after a long, stressful day of rescues. And while Virgil might not have been rescuing anybody as of late, the little upright piano in the living room here has been a godsend.

Somewhere in this box should be the song that Scott had been humming earlier. 

Virgil carefully picks his way through the pages in the box, the old-fashioned, slightly yellowed paper that’s so rare these days. There are some data-cards, too, but Mom’s song– that specific song– was definitely written on paper. 

Christmas carols, various dancing tunes, more classical pieces than he can count, a few of Mom’s favourite lullabies, some of Virgil’s favourite jazz pieces, and yet more. He sorts the papers into neat piles, one by one, until finally…

“Got you!”

Chapter Text

Virgil grins, holding up his prize: a sheaf of slightly yellowed papers. Mom’s song.

This particular song is very special. Not only did Mom write it, it’s one of the first songs she taught Virgil to play. Apparently she’d tried teaching Scott, too, but even as a kid he had little patience, preferring to sprint and climb instead of sitting calmly and pressing keys with Mom and his little brother.

Virgil’s pretty sure Scott did learn something from Mom’s attempts at teaching, though he rarely plays– rarely played. Play ed , Virgil corrects himself. Past tense. 

Maybe he can teach Scott the way Mom taught them. That might bring something back. It’ll have to wait until he’s got better hand-eye co-ordination, though. And in the meantime… maybe if Virgil plays a few of these songs…

“What are you doing–” a sleep-rough voice comes from the door. Not annoyed, but inquisitive. John. “Oh, it’s you. I thought it would be Scott.”

“He’s having his therapy session right now,” Virgil says. 

“Wasn’t that supposed to be Monday?” John yawns. 

“Kind of,” Virgil answers. “We’re doing Monday and Thursday. Grandma talked to the therapist and they thought it would be better to stick to a strict routine with that stuff, and since it was his birthday and we weren’t settled in yet…”

“We’re heading to Gran Roca next Saturday, right?”

“Right. So by the time Monday rolls around, we’ll have a routine going,” Virgil says. “Just in time for International Rescue operations to start again.”

John nods, his eyes fixed on the carpet. He’s hovering, like he wants to say something. 

Virgil waits. John likes to be very precise with his words. In the meantime, he sorts the papers in the box in two piles: the songs he wants to play over the next few days, and those that will go back into the closet.

“I don’t know how I feel about that,” John says, after what seems like an age.

“Starting operations again or going to Gran Roca?”

“Operations,” John says. “I just… it feels wrong. Doing it without Scott, I mean. I know it’s necessary, but…” 

“You don’t like change,” Virgil says. None of them do, but John more than anybody else. John had tried explaining it to Virgil years ago, but just about the only thing he’d understood was that John’s routines are a source of comfort for him.

“It’s not that,” John says. “I mean, I guess it is. But with the R.O.Bots helping us, it’s not going to be too different from what we’re doing now, and on-call it won’t be too different from what we were doing before Alan got space-rated.”

Back then, John had piloted Three in lieu of Alan. At Gran Roca, John will be the principal pilot of One in lieu of Scott. Gran Roca might actually be a lighter workload, since call-answering will be mostly done by EOS, rather than whoever happens to be in the living room.

“What do you mean, then?”

“It’s just…” John grimaces, shifting his weight. “I don’t know. Scott is the one who suggested restarting International Rescue in the first place. I know this is just temporary, but…"

John trails off again, lamely. He’s probably thinking back to that phone call.

“I get it,” Virgil replies, setting the rejected papers back into the box and closing the lid. “I feel the same. I’m only doing it because I know it’s what Scott would want.”

“I know.” John lets out a long sigh. “It’s so… strange. He’s right here and he’s not at all.”

The ever-present fear spikes at that, sending a chill up Virgil’s spine. 

“He’ll come back to us, John. You have to believe that.”

John nods, finally looking up to meet Virgil’s gaze. 

“I know,” he says. Then he looks at the box. “Anything I can do to help?”

“No, I’m just about done up here.” 

“Want me to go get the kitchen ready?” John asks. “You’ve been working all day, you must be getting tired, right?”

Virgil glances at the clock. Still about twenty minutes to go before Scott’s session is due to end, and the thought of traipsing downstairs again– even if it is only to set out some bowls and slice some bread– makes him grimace. 

“Thanks.”

John nods, giving him a small smile, and vanishes. 

Virgil puts the music box back in the closet, and then pauses, thinking better of it. Should they bring it to Gran Roca? They have electronic copies of most of the sheet music, but physical stuff might help jog Scott’s memories better. But on the other hand… the paper copies can’t be replaced, and Virgil’s no geologist. He’s not sure how the different climate will affect the papers. 

And then there’s the issue of space- Gran Roca is technically larger than the farmhouse, but a significant portion of the living area has been converted into support for International Rescue. The guest wing is now an infirmary, for example, and there’s an entire extension dedicated to the computing and communications equipment that can’t be hidden underground. There aren’t enough bedrooms for everybody, especially considering the medical staff who are going to be constantly visiting the property. Even one extra box of stuff is going to be a problem.

Maybe the box should stay here. Virgil can take some electronic copies, set a little projector up above the old piano in the dining room.

Ultimately, practicality wins out and he carefully closes the closet door before heading back to his shared bedroom. It’s not a large space, not now they’ve both outgrown the novelty of bunk-beds, but it’s well-organised. Most of John’s telescopes have been stored in the attic, leaving a wide space for Virgil’s art supplies. Large bookshelves and an extra-wide dresser line the wall nearest the door, astronomy posters and some of Virgil’s favourite paintings fixed to the remaining walls.

Even though Virgil and John are both fairly orderly, neither of them have had much time to clean and organise over the last few days. Virgil opens a window, letting the wind outside ventilate the room, and kills a few minutes tidying some of their belongings away. Then a few more sorting the laundry hamper, so one of them can do that tomorrow. And then, just for good measure, he kills another few minutes by remaking the beds and fluffing the pillows. 

Five-thirty comes and goes. No sign of Scott. Maybe the session overran.

Virgil checks his e-mails. An old college friend sends her regards. Godfrey’s forwarded a letter to both Virgil and Kayo confirming the court date at the end of the month. Penny’s sent a reply to his last message, inquiring whether she ought to keep Scott’s birthday present until Christmas, or if she ought to bring it to Gran Roca the next time she visits. 

Better wait until Christmas, Virgil replies, alongside a quick but sincere thanks. And then he frowns at the clock on the wall above John’s bed.

Five-forty. The session was supposed to end ten minutes ago, and he hasn’t received any messages from Doctor Shou.

Virgil thinks for a moment, then taps out a short e-mail. 

Hi, Dr Shou. Did the session go well?

The reply is near-instantaneous.

Scott seems to be doing well, all things considered. It’s too early to say much else. I’ll call on Monday at the same time.

So the session is over. Maybe Scott needed a few minutes to collect himself. Or maybe he forgot what Virgil told him. 

Virgil swallows. He hasn’t been testing Scott’s memory, not since he was declared oriented last week. Is it possible that he backslid? He remembers hearing that people with brain injuries sometimes have memory problems even after recovery. Virgil fights the urge to shudder. 

Scott’s fine. He has to be. 

He heads out into the hall, knocks on the bedroom door. After a few seconds, Scott opens the door. He stares blankly, leaning against the doorframe, as though expecting Virgil to say something. 

“Everything all right?” Virgil asks. “You were supposed to come find me, remember?”

“Yeah, I know,” Scott replies, unconvincingly. “You said to do it when I was ready. Everything’s fine.”

Okay, so he didn’t forget. That’s good, but he doesn’t seem fine. He’s clearly tense.

“You sure about that?”

Scott doesn’t answer. Instead, he looks down, starts restlessly wriggling his socked toes in the plush grey carpet. He’s frowning. Definitely not ‘fine’. 

“Scott, is there something bothering you?” Virgil tries again, reaching out to tug at Scott’s sleeve. “You know you can talk to me, right?”

Scott nods, shifting on his feet before looking back at him. 

“The therapist,” Scott starts, and then he stops. He frowns, mouth tightening, dimples deepening. “He knew me before, right?”

“Yeah. He’s worked with you for ages. Since… since Dad.”

Scott nods, digesting that for a few long seconds. 

“Can I talk to someone new?” 

“You want a new therapist? Um…” Virgil hesitates. “We’ll have to talk to Grandma about it. Did something happen?”

“No, I just…” Scott shakes his head. “It feels weird.”

“You have a brain injury,” Virgil tells him gently. “Everything’s going to feel weird for a while.”

“I guess,” Scott says, still frowning.

“C’mon,” Virgil says, grasping his brother’s wrist, leading him out into the hall. “Let’s eat first, and then we can talk to Grandma. Sound good?”

“I guess.”

Scott makes it downstairs without his crutches, leaning on Virgil and the bannister. John’s slicing Mrs Thompson’s bread in the kitchen when they arrive. He looks relieved when he spots them, quickly calling Grandma and the younger two in. 

The stew is good. Better than Virgil had expected: he’s a mechanic, not a chef. The canned tomatoes and the onion have broken down into a rich, thick sauce, and the spices are flavoursome without being overpowering. Mrs Thompson’s sourdough is perfectly-suited to mopping up the leftover sauce. 

“This is wonderful, sweetheart,” Grandma coos. “You’re doing a great job.”

“Don’t tell him that, he’ll get a big head– and then he’ll need even more hair gel for his hairdryer trick. Our power grid won’t survive the surge,” Gordon tells her, because he always needs to find something to joke about. 

“Ha, ha,” Virgil rolls his eyes. “I told you, that happened once.”

“Once is enough,” Gordon says, sweetly, and then he turns to Scott, jabbing a thumb in Virgil’s direction. “I bet you don’t remember, right? This guy once tripped the entire power grid on the island doing his hair.”

“Once!” Virgil protests, face burning. “It happened one time!”

“I dunno,” Scott says, glancing between the two of them, the ghost of a smile playing at his lips. “I hear once is enough, you know?”

Gordon throws his head back with a cackle, and nearly chokes on his stew. Which serves him right. Unfortunately, Grandma rubs Gordon’s back until he stops coughing.

“Hey, when can we go out to see the stars?” Alan asks, in an obvious attempt to change the subject. No way he doesn’t already know, he’s been talking about the star-gazing ever since John first suggested it. Virgil gratefully takes the out he’s been given.

“The sky should be dark enough by eight thirty, so I was thinking—” Virgil starts, and John holds up one finger, silencing him.

“Wait a sec,” John frowns, tilting his head in the way that means EOS is whispering in his ear. “Scratch that. No stargazing tonight. The National Weather Service just issued a tornado watch.”

A tornado watch, meaning a tornado is likely to form, but hasn’t yet. Worrying, but not necessarily a problem, unlike a tornado warning. That one means that a tornado has formed and danger is imminent.

“Should we be worried?” Virgil asks. It’s not unusual to get tornados out here in April, though they’re more common in June. Pretty much every month is Tornado Season in Kansas.

John closes his eyes for a moment, listening again. 

“I don’t think so. EOS says it looks like it’s forming south. Predicted path is northeast. We’ll get strong winds, but it won’t directly hit us.”

“How strong are the winds going to be?” Virgil asks. “Think we should sleep in the basement tonight?”

“We probably won’t get much damage up here,” John says. “Maybe a broken window if we're unlucky. But it’s better to be safe than sorry.”

“We can have a slumber party down in the basement!” Gordon interjects, tomato sauce gathered at the edges of his wide grin. “Just like when we were kids! Remember? We used to get out the sleeping bags and pretend like we were camping out down there. Dad used to get out that little camp-fire cube so we could make s’mores and Scott used to eat all the marshmallows when nobody was looking.” Gordon pauses, then adds very seriously: “We can’t let him do that this time. S’mores are sacred.”

“S’mores?” Scott perks up immediately. “Yeah, I’m with Gordon on this one. Let’s have a slumber party.”

“You have to promise to leave the marshmallows alone,” Gordon tells him. 

“I make no promises where marshmallows are concerned,” Scott replies, before taking another bite of stew. He sounds so much like himself that Virgil’s heart hurts.

Scott’s going to be okay. They’re all going to be okay. 

“Heading downstairs is probably a good idea,” Grandma agrees. “I’m not as young as I used to be, and I sleep like the dead. I’d rather be down there than up here if they announce a tornado warning.” 

Virgil nods. She’s right. And although Scott’s getting better bit-by-bit, the thought of trying to get Scott downstairs safely while Virgil’s half-asleep himself makes his skin crawl.

No, it’s much better if they all stay downstairs. They’ll all be safe and nobody needs to worry much.

“Okay, I guess we’re having a slumber party after all,” he says.

After dinner is a flurry of activity. Alan and Gordon tackle the dishes, as normal, and Grandma goes to dig out the spare blankets and pillows. John goes to get the old camping equipment out of the attic. That leaves Virgil on window-and-door duty, once he and Scott are done with the tennis ball physio, and he tows Scott with him so he doesn’t feel left out. 

“How do we lock these windows?” Scott asks, testing the handles. 

“You don’t,” Virgil says, reaching out to show him. “They lock automatically, like this, and you press this bit here to unlock them.”

“What about covering them?”

“There are shutters on each window,” Virgil replies. “You can’t see them right now, but we’ll activate the hurricane system when we’re all ready to head downstairs.”

“It’s all electronic?” Scott frowns again. “What if the power goes out?”

“Maybe twenty years ago it would’ve been a problem,” Virgil admits. The power used to go frequently after tornadoes, and if he really stretches his memory, maybe it’d happened a few times during the Global Conflict, too. “But Dad had the power systems totally overhauled when he renovated the place about a decade ago. We’re powered by both solar and wind, with backup batteries, and there are about three separate backup wiring systems. But in the event all of those things somehow fail at the exact same time, there is an emergency removal lever on all the panels. No need to worry.”

“I wasn’t worried,” Scott mutters, looking very worried. 

“I know,” Virgil says, and gently pulls Scott to the next room. 

While Scott’s checking the window, Virgil checks his text messages: the skeleton security team Kayo arranged for their stay here are staying just across the street, and will be sheltering in the basement of that house. 

It feels weird to know that their family needs a security team in order to stay in their own home.

When all the windows and doors– garage and outbuildings included– have been locked tight, and Virgil’s checked that all lights and faucets are firmly turned off, Virgil packs a small duffel with their pyjamas and toiletries, as well as some clothes for tomorrow, just in case the tornado watch lasts beyond the dawn. It probably won’t, but Dad always insisted that they try to be as prepared as possible.

Before they head down to the basement, Virgil activates the shutter system from the small control panel in the entrance hall. Scott watches the shutters slide down the inside of the windows and doors.

“C’mon, let’s go down,” Virgil says. 

“Yeah, just a sec…” Scott mutters, eyes fixed on the front door shutter. When it stops sliding, he lets Virgil lead him down the stairs.

Alan and Gordon are downstairs already, fussing with the indoor campfire– a prototype of the artificial ones that they use in the pop-up arctic tents. There’s a carrier bag near the foosball table that looks suspiciously full of snacks, and two more that appear full of water bottles and Thermos flasks. Several boxes of emergency rations lie underneath the foosball table– probably dug out of the store-room next to the outdoor hatch. They’ll be okay if the worst comes to pass. 

“John and Grandma are setting up the camp-bed in the old office,” Gordon tells them. “I think they’re nearly done. Scott, you wanna help us unroll the sleeping bags?” 

“Sure.”

As Gordon predicted, John and Grandma are almost done with the bed. The room is pretty small, Dad’s old desk and a couple filing cabinets pushed against the far wall, boxes stacked haphazardly. All Virgil needs to do is move a few of the boxes out of Grandma’s way, stacking them a little more securely, so she can move a little easier. Then he clears a space for the mini-heater John dug up. It can get cold down here, especially in the cooler months.

“Thank you, boys,” Grandma kisses her grandsons on the cheek. “How is everything?”

“We’re all locked up tight. Shutters are down, and I think Alan and Gordon prepped some emergency rations for us.” 

Grandma nods, clearly relieved. 

“Then I’ll check the first-aid kits and get ready for bed. Do you boys have your clothes and toothbrushes ready?”

“Yeah, I brought a bag down,” John replies. “I’ll check if Alan and Gordon did, too.”

“How long do we have?” Virgil asks. 

John swipes something on his watch, and brings up a small holographic weather map.

“Looks like the wind won’t start getting bad until around nine,” John replies. “We’ve got plenty of time.”

John is right. It only takes about a half-hour for their family to gather in the main room, the door and hatch leading upstairs both securely locked. Turns out that Gordon’s sleep-sweats are almost as garish as his customary Hawaiian shirts, and by the time Virgil finishes checking the first-aid kits with Grandma, he’s already got John, Alan and Scott roasting marshmallows over the indoor campfire. 

“Scott, seriously, stop eating the marshmallow.”

“I’m only eating the browned bits,” comes the muffled reply. Come to think of it, the marshmallow on Scott’s skewer does look suspiciously small and pale compared to Gordon and Alan. 

“You need to keep the browned bits on the marshmallow,” Gordon says, snatching Scott’s skewer out of his hands. “C’mon, man. Get the graham crackers and the chocolate, and I’ll show you how to make a s’more.”

John wordlessly passes Virgil a s’more containing a perfectly-toasted marshmallow. 

“Grandma, would you like one too?” John asks, skewering another marshmallow. 

“It’s all right. I don’t have much of a sweet-tooth these days,” she replies.

The s’more is perfect: warm, gooey marshmallow sandwiched by smooth, melting chocolate and crunchy graham crackers. Virgil lets his eyes track over to Scott. Having been divested of his marshmallow skewer, he’s resorted to breaking off squares of chocolate, sneakily popping them in his mouth when Gordon isn’t looking. 

“How’d you manage to eat that much chocolate?” Gordon groans, snatching the chocolate bar out of Scott’s hands. “Virgil’s going to kill me!” 

“I am,” Virgil agrees, although he doesn’t really mean it. At least Scott started snacking after eating all the food he was supposed to, so he’s not missing any nutrients.

“Here, try this,” Alan says, pushing the s’more he’s been painstakingly making into Scott’s hands. At the same time, he deftly removes the chocolate from Scott’s lap, sliding it to John with one smooth motion.  “You’ve never tried a s’more before, have you?"

Scott’s the one that taught Virgil how to make them, coming home from Rescue Scout summer camp exhausted and slightly sunburnt and eager to share all the knowledge he’d picked up.

“Not that I remember,” Scott replies, and he takes a bite, the melted marshmallow and chocolate squeezing out of the sides, smearing and dripping all over his hands and the table. He closes his eyes, letting out a pleased noise. “Mm, that’s good.”

At least some things never change.

Eventually, the chocolate and the marshmallows run out. Gordon and Alan clean up the snacks,  while John sets the indoor campfire to a much lower heat setting– they won’t need much, with five of them sharing this room. One of the housekeeping bots starts vacuuming up crumbs, while Virgil sends Scott to the bathroom. 

“Make sure you get all the marshmallow off,” Virgil tells him, putting the folded pyjamas on the closed toilet lid. “And make sure you brush your teeth well. You hate the dentist.”

“Everybody hates the dentist,” Scott mutters, already shucking off his hoodie, dropping it into the laundry basket by the door. 

“He still has to bribe you with lollipops at the end of every appointment,” Virgil says. 

“That’s true!” Gordon calls, through the open door. “You gotta tell me how you’re doing that, he never gives me any!”

Scott rolls his eyes, like he always does when he’s annoyed, and shoves his toothbrush into his mouth. When he’s clean and dressed, he curls up on the couch next to Grandma. 

“Shortland Street or Summer Bay?” Grandma asks. 

“Shortland Street,” Scott says, after a moment of thought. Grandma turns the TV on, a familiar theme song filling the room. And that means Virgil has a few minutes to himself. Time for his own wind-down routine. Which, on a good day, always starts with skincare.

By the time Grandma and Scott’s designated Soap Opera time comes to a close, the wind’s picked up outside and more or less everybody has made themselves comfortable in their sleepwear, curled up inside sleeping bags or blankets. 

Alan gets the first pick of the movies, since Scott still doesn’t know what he likes, and predictably chooses something with a lot of action and explosions. Scott falls asleep on Grandma’s shoulder long before the climax. 

When the credits roll, Alan enlists John’s help to choose the next movie, and Virgil helps Grandma gently lay Scott’s head on a cushion. Luckily, the couch is the four-person kind– a necessity with a family as large as the Tracy clan– so even long, lanky Scott fits with room to spare.

“Sleep tight,” Grandma whispers to Scott, tucking a blanket around his shoulders.

Scott mumbles something unintelligible and shifts under the blanket. Grandma rises to her feet, wincing slightly. 

“I suppose I’d better go to bed,” she yawns. “I can’t keep up with you youngsters any more.”

“Okay, Grandma,” Virgil replies. “We’ll try to keep the noise down.”

“Just a sec,” John says up, one hand to his ear. He looks tense. “EOS says we just got upgraded to a warning.”

“What’s the trajectory?” Gordon asks, and John brings up the map on his watch again. 

“Trajectory is northwest,” John murmurs, listening intently to EOS through his earpiece. “The actual tornado should miss us completely, but we’ll get strong winds outside. Really strong. The GDF are preparing to send R.O.Bots and manned recovery units to help the people who get hit.”

“Good thing we came down here,” Alan says, and Virgil’s inclined to agree. Getting a half-asleep Scott down here quickly would have been hellish. 

“If there are any more developments, come and wake me up, okay?” Grandma says. “Goodnight, boys.”

With that, there’s little to do except settle back with some old movies and relax, trying not to listen to the storm raging outside. Sounds like it’s started raining at some point in the last hour or so, the raindrops echoing through the glass and the shutters. 

John initially picks 2001: A Space Odyssey for their next movie, though a sharp glare from Virgil moves him to pick Interstellar instead. Not that any of them really watch the movie– good as it is, picking John’s brain about the astrophysics in the movie is a much better way to distract themselves from the sound of the storm and the fact they’re not assembling to help. 

The GDF have it in hand, right?

“--think that black holes could conceivably warp time, but obviously it’s not really possible for us to confirm that hypothesis,” John explains, during the denouement. “Of course, it wouldn’t work exactly like the movie– you’d be spaghettified if you tried.”

“Now I want spaghetti,” Alan whispers, swaddled in a large red sleeping bag between Gordon and Virgil. Even completely engrossed in John’s words, teenage hunger wins out. 

“Don’t think we have spaghetti down here. I think the rations are mostly stuff like soup and rice,” Gordon replies. “I brought tons of celery crunch bars, though.”

“Ew…” Alan makes a face. “I’m not that hungry.”

“Suit yourself,” Gordon says with a shrug, producing one of those gross little cereal bars. 

“I don’t know how you can eat those,” Virgil confesses. 

“I don’t know how you can stop yourself eating these delights,” Gordon replies, tearing open the bar. He sinks his teeth in with a loud crunch, and at the same moment there’s a loud banging noise outside. Not near the house– maybe the road. Something rolling. A trash can?

“No…” Scott murmurs, so quietly Virgil almost doesn’t hear it. If not for John’s eyes darting to the couch, he might not have even registered the sound. 

Scott’s still on the couch, just as they left him, but there’s a furrow between his brows. He’s curled in on himself, too. He doesn’t normally look like that when he’s asleep. He tends to stretch out in a long, relaxed line, not a frown in sight.

Is he okay?

Virgil’s question is answered almost immediately, when Scott shifts, rolling to the edge of the couch, mumbling again– this time he sounds almost pained . 

“M’mmy?” 

“We should get him off the couch,” John says. “I really don’t want to have to call an ambulance during a tornado warning.”

That would be a disaster. Virgil stands, takes two long strides to the couch, and gently shakes Scott’s shoulder. 

“Hey, Scott. Wake up.”

Scott’s eyes fly open with a gasp, and he stares at Virgil with wide eyes, struggling to catch his breath.

“Did you have a nightmare?” Virgil asks. “It’s okay, you’re sa–”

Scott moves quickly, but clumsily, slapping one hand tight against Virgil’s mouth. 

“Ssh!” Scott hisses, so quietly Virgil can hardly hear him over the TV. “What are you doing? We have to be quiet!” 

“Quiet?” Virgil asks, around Scott’s hand. 

“Turn it off!” Scott pushes himself up, then gestures with his free hand at the TV. “ When the warning siren sounds, stay calm and quiet underground. In the shelter you must stay, until the all-clear siren plays. "

It’s a familiar rhyme, one that Virgil remembers well. They used to say it in school a lot, back when the Global Conflict broke out. He’d been… what? Five or six back then? Most of that time is a blur, but he can kind of recall playing the Quiet Game with some classmates and Mrs Garcia in the school basement.

The TV goes black, the sound of the storm outside taking its place. John appears next to Virgil, gently removing Scott’s hand from his face.

“Scott, this is not an air raid,” John says, matching Scott’s volume. He’s using his Space Monitor voice, too. “This is a tornado warning. We don’t need to be quiet. There aren’t any sonic wave drones.”

“No, Grammy said it, too,” Scott hisses. “It’s not just the drones, it’s the baby, too!”

“The baby? What baby?” John asks, probing for more information.

“Mommy’s baby. It was hurting her,” Scott frowns, trying to stand, but Virgil gently presses him back onto the couch. “Grammy was going to help her. Is she okay?”

“Scott, there’s no baby here. It was just a dream,” Virgil says, but John is frowning. 

“What else do you remember?” John asks.

“What?” Scott rubs his eyes, blinking hard. “Just tell me, is she okay?”

“Everybody here is fine,” John promises. “What do you remember from just now? Before Virgil woke you?” 

“I… I don’t know,” Scott squints up at Virgil. “You woke me?”

“I woke you,” Virgil confirms. 

“But…” Scott blinks. “Oh. Did I fall asleep?”

It takes a few minutes to get the information out of Scott. The longer he’s awake, the less disoriented he becomes and the more the details of the dream fade.

“Gramm– Grandma’s hands were covered in blood,” Scott murmurs, now speaking at an audible volume, albeit one lower than his normal tone. “There was so much blood. And– and there was crying. They were all crying, Mom and the baby and Grandma, too. Even though the drones were outside.” 

John nods. 

“Scott, I think part of that nightmare was a memory,” he says. “Gordon was born in this house, right at the start of the Conflict. He’s perfectly fine– look.” 

That’s right. Gordon was born during an air-raid, wasn’t he? Grandma always likened it to that old movie, The Quiet Place. But worse, she said. To be honest, Virgil remembers little of that night. An old cartoon on the TV screen. Cuddling with Scott and John. That’s about it. 

John shifts aside so Scott can see Gordon, screwing the top off a Thermos flask of hot chocolate for Alan. Gordon gives them a smile and a small wave. 

“A dream. Right. Yeah, I… that makes sense,” Scott mutters. He clears his throat. “Was Mom okay after that? I… I think there was a lot of blood.”

“Alan exists, doesn’t he?” John replies, with a kind smile. “I know it must have been distressing. But everything is fine now, so how about we all go back to sleep?”

Scott shakes his head immediately. 

“No. No way.”

“Then how about watching a movie with us?” Virgil asks. Scott will almost certainly nod off halfway through. 

“Sure,” Scott seems relieved at the thought, and Virgil helps bundle him up in a blue sleeping bag. Gordon moves from near the armchair to Scott’s other side, and Virgil offers Scott a Thermos, too. This one is full of herbal tea.

“Camomile should make you feel a little better,” Virgil says, and Scott nods, clutching the flask close to his chest.

Gordon gets the next pick of what to watch, and he chooses an old favourite: Sting-Ray. 

“You’re going to love this one,” Virgil tells Scott, and Scott nods. 

“I guess,” he says, sounding unhappy. 

The first episode seems to take Scott’s mind off the nightmare-memory. By the end of the second, he’s fallen asleep next to Virgil, Gordon having saved the Thermos and remaining tea. 

Virgil does his best to relax into his nest of sleeping bag and blankets. It’s been a long day. Exhausting. 

He watches the characters on the screen, lets their words wash over him. He doesn’t need to listen. He’s pretty sure knows all the plots off by heart at this point. 

At some point, someone turns off the TV. 

“Good news. The warning’s been lifted,” a voice says. 

A much smaller person snuggles into Virgil’s side. It’s warm here. The fear almost feels like it’s slipping away. 

The wind howls, but he can’t hear the rain anymore.

Virgil’s not sure when his eyes slip shut.

Chapter Text

The GDF, being a global organization, doesn’t have a singular administrative headquarters. Rather, it maintains a vast number of regional headquarters across the world. The European headquarters are housed near Brussels, a series of rather ugly concrete blocks on the outskirts of the Belgian capital. The ugliness of the headquarters is at stark odds with the beauty of its surroundings, the pretty rolling hills of the Flemish countryside.

Penny steps through the final security gate with Sherbet in her arms. This time she’s divested of her favourite earrings, her watch, and the darling little necklace Aunt Sylvia gave her for her birthday last year, all deposited into a small tray to be scanned, along with Sherbet’s collar.

Though Penny understands the necessity of these checks, surely they would be much more pleasant if the GDF had bothered with some kind of interior decorating. A nice painting or a potted plant, perhaps.

“It’s all right, my sweet,” Penny tells Sherbet, beckoning him through behind her. “It’s almost over.”

The security officer at the imaging booth gives her a thumbs-up. 

“U mag doorgaan.” she says. You may continue. And so Penny does, pausing to fasten Sherbet’s collar back around his neck, and then put her jewellery back on. It gives Parker a chance to catch up– they’d been rather suspicious about his lockpicks before Colonel Casey had called to intervene. Understandable, given the current situation with the Chaos Crew causing… well, so much chaos. The GDF and their little R.O.Bots have barely been able to keep up.

Penny kisses Sherbet on his adorable little head and squares her shoulders before heading down the corridor. Colonel Casey’s office isn’t far. It’s easy to find, too: there’s a small waiting area and a secretary in front of the small hallway that leads to the GDF leadership offices. 

“Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward?” the secretary asks. 

“Yes,” Penny smiles, and shows him her ID. “This is Parker, my assistant.” 

The man peers at their identification, nods, then waves them both through.

Colonel Casey’s office is large, but rather dimy-lit. Fitting for the castle-like aesthetic of the headquarters: there are large stone pillars set into the walls, with grand bookshelves and wooden panelling, finished with a plush purple carpet under her feet. A grand wooden desk sits next to the left wall, and a display case decorated with GDF dress uniforms sits near the door.

“Lady Penelope,” Casey greets her with a polite smile and a nod. “Allow me to introduce Captain Wayne Rigby.”

Rigby is a rather angry-looking fellow. He’s perhaps as tall as Virgil, and almost entirely dissimilar to her friend in every other regard. Rigby has blond hair in a severe short-back-and-sides cut, with bright blue eyes and a sour-looking scowl. He’s standing ramrod-straight, with his hands clasped behind his back, glaring directly ahead instead of so much as glancing at Penelope. 

“It’s a pleasure,” she says, smiling at him. He doesn’t even blink. That’s a little bit rude. 

“Rigby has been assigned to find and arrest the Hood and the Chaos Crew,” Casey says. “I was hoping that you might be able to assist him, as you’ve had some experience with the Hood in the past.”

Penny tries not to shudder. There have been a number of close calls, but perhaps the closest one was that charity auction with John. She’d really thought that they were done for. How lucky she had been to have John with her, that he’d agreed to join her in the first place had been a miracle in and of itself. 

“That’s an interesting way to word it,” Penny manages. “I’ll gladly do whatever I can to help you, Captain. The Hood and the Chaos Crew are wreaking havoc– they simply must be stopped.”

“Of course,” Casey agrees, and then the phone on her desk rings. She sighs, shaking her head. “I’m sorry, would you mind..?”

“Oh, go right ahead,” Penny says. 

“Thank you,” Casey looks relieved. She crosses the room, answers the call, and settles into the chair behind her desk. “Director Patillo?”

Penny tries very hard not to listen to the conversation, stroking sweet little Sherbet’s head. He doesn’t seem all that fond of Rigby, quietly baring his teeth at the Captain from his place in Penny’s arms. That’s not ideal, if they’re going to work together. Better try to acclimatise them. 

“You must be very good at your job to get an assignment like this,” Penny says. “The Hood is a rather fearsome chap.”

“Obviously not, if they’re bringing you in,” Rigby replies, finally acknowledging her presence with a scowl. “The Hood can’t be as bad as they say if an aristocrat can catch him on her day off.”

Penny blinks. She can’t tell if that was supposed to insult her or the Hood more. 

“Well, I had some help from a friend,” Penny says, quickly drawing up her best genteel mask. “Kayo is an absolute darling.”

Kayo is a little more than that, actually– she has been a godsend in all this. Despite the vast amounts of work she has on her plate, with International Rescue’s relocation and reworking all of the Tracy family’s security protocols, she’s been generous enough to answer all of the questions Penny and Parker have asked. Kayo was even kind enough to give them access to some of the data feeds she uses to track her uncle: a few programs scouring the dark web for his presence, plus another that keeps an eye on his known assets and identities. 

“I don’t need you,” Rigby replies. “I don’t need your dog or your butler, and I don’t need your friend. Leave the bad-guy catching to the experts.”

Penelope bites back the barbed remark on the tip of her tongue: ‘ah, but will you keep him?’. It won’t do any good to bait a man like Rigby. He’s too self-centred. Too proud. And it would be terribly rude of her– a Lady cannot sink to that level.

“H’I wouldn’t speak to Milady like that if I was you, sir,” Parker snarls, stepping forward to put himself between Penelope and Rigby. His voice is low, dangerous. Penny’s only heard it a handful of times before. It usually precedes blood and broken teeth. 

“Right, now where were we?” Casey’s voice rings out, as she rounds her desk. “Rigby, why don’t you bring us up to speed on the Chaos Crew?”

“Of course,” Rigby agrees, bringing up a hologram. “Here’s what we know about the suspects so far. Suspect One drives a muscle car. Suspect Two utilises a quad bike.”

Rigby stands at attention, looking expectantly at Casey. 

“Any more, Rigby?”

“Well, er…” Rigby hesitates. “Not as yet, no.”

Of course. His aggressiveness is a front for his insecurity. And it appears Captain Rigby has a lot to be insecure about. 

“Perhaps I could fill in a few gaps, Captain?” Lady Penelope suggests, with her very best bland smile. 

“Please do, Penelope,” Casey says, with an agreeable nod.

It’s taken a rather long time, by Penny’s standards, to get this information. A mixture of gently probing Parker’s old friends and acquaintances for information, and asking EOS to help her scour the world’s CCTV systems. Truth be told, EOS has helped tremendously, though Penny almost wishes she didn’t. 

Although Penny thinks the world of John– and who wouldn’t? He’s an absolute star– she’s never quite been able to trust EOS after that nasty trick she pulled when she first came aboard Thunderbird Five. And so, no matter how helpful and nice and cheerful EOS is now, she just can’t help but think about how John almost– how EOS almost– 

Not here, Penny reminds herself. 

Lady Penelope straightens her back and sets Sherbet on the chair near Casey’s desk. Parker plugs in his little data chip and brings up the appropriate graph on the holographic display.

“Analysis shows no discernible pattern behind the Hood or Chaos Crew’s movements the last few weeks,” Penelope says. “It appears that they have used the vacuum left behind by Scott Tracy’s incapacitation and International Rescue’s subsequent stand-down to… simply cause as much chaos as possible.” 

Parker brings up a video of the woman.

“Suspect Two, as Rigby named her, is known on the streets of London as ‘Havoc’. She is an expert in hacking and uses holographic equipmen to disguise and hide herself. She is familiar with climbing equipment and appears to be a seasoned traceur.”

Parker brings up another video. A man. Penelope continues.

“Suspect One is known as Fuse. He appears to be the heavy-hitter of the group thanks to his powered armour, which among other things adds destructive power to his punches. He also appears to be a demolitions expert, utilising many kinds of explosives during the Chaos Crew’s reign of terror.”

Parker brings up a final video. A purple-painted cargo plane.

“The two vehicles you mentioned are stored in this aircraft. For lack of a better term, we’ve named it the Chaos Cruiser. We suspect they use it to travel to their permanent base, but so far have been unable to track it due to its stealth capabilities.” 

Parker closes the holographic projector, and Penny smiles at Casey. 

“I’m afraid that’s more or less all we know,” Penny says. 

“Impressive,” Casey says, looking pleased. “I assume that tracking the Chaos Cruiser will be a top priority in this case?”

Penny could smile and say “of course”. It would be her right, and it would feel great to put Rigby in his place. But instead she chooses to extend an olive branch to the rather dour, put-out Rigby sitting next to Sherbet. There’s still a chance they can work well together. She’s not the type to burn bridges unless absolutely necessary.

“I’m not sure. Captain, what do you think?”

Rigby startles, clearly not expecting her answer.

“I– yes, we’ll look for the Cruiser,” Rigby manages. He clears his throat. “Once we find the Chaos Cruiser, we’ll find the Hood. Priority One.”

“That’s h’what I thought,” Parker mutters, barely audible even to Penny, still glaring daggers at Rigby.

“Excellent,” Casey says. 

And then the holographic display in Casey’s office reopens with an alarm, John’s tinny voice echoing over the speakers.

“The Chaos Crew were just sighted. Fuse was at the Polar Explorer site in the Arctic, and broke the ice underneath the station. R.O.Bots have been deployed. Havoc is currently at a storage facility in Glasgow– I have eyes on the CCTV as we speak."

It’s not John- he’s in Kansas, not on Thunderbird Five. But EOS is very good at impersonation. Penny’s stomach turns.

“Thank you, John,” Casey replies, even though she must surely be aware that it isn’t really him. 

“Permission to be dismissed?” Rigby asks. “If we catch Havoc…”

Casey doesn’t need convincing. She nods. 

“Dismissed. Lady Penelope, would you…?” 

“Of course we’ll help. We can follow behind in FAB 1,” Penelope agrees. And then she pauses. “Although I’m not sure how much use we’ll be. I didn’t exactly dress for the occasion.”

“Anything would be appreciated. We’re stretched thin,” Casey says, meeting her worried gaze with calmness.

Penelope nods, scooping Sherbet into her arms as she runs down the hall. She can hear Parker groaning behind her as he follows. 

They’re really not going to be much use to the GDF here– Penelope is many things, but while she is graceful, she’s far from agile, and she's certainly no fighter. She’s seen the videos of Havoc. She’s hopelessly outclassed. And while Parker is strong and devilishly clever, he’s also pushing sixty and isn’t as fast as he used to be. 

Penny doesn’t know much about Rigby, but his performance in Casey’s office doesn’t fill her with much confidence. They'll need help.

She activates her comm unit. It takes three whole seconds for the call to connect– an unusual slowness Penny suspects has been caused by the sheer amount of shielding surrounding this building. 

A female voice answers.

“Penelope?"

“Kayo, darling, do you have a few minutes to spare? I’m afraid there’s a bit of situation.”

A pause.

“Always. Where do you need me?”

Chapter Text

It’s still dark when John awakens on Friday. 

It’s always dark when he wakes up in the morning, but today especially so. Technically it's always dark on Five, but the lights there automatically brighten when he approaches, and here at the farm he’s sharing with Virgil, who could probably sleep through an earthquake– and John’s pretty sure he actually has on one occasion– and doesn’t so much as stir when John flicks on his bedside lamp.

Down here in the basement, there’s no light within easy reach. Even if there was, he wouldn’t switch it on.

Alan and Virgil may sleep like the dead, but Gordon and Scott are both infamously light sleepers, and John’s not willing to risk their collective wrath. Especially not now, when the doctors say Scott needs as much sleep as possible to recover and Gordon has seemingly-endless free time in which to plot revenge. 

John lets himself lie on the floor for a few more minutes, wiping the sleep from his eyes as he wakes up. It’s still windy outside, but nowhere near as bad as earlier: Gordon and Virgil’s combined snoring almost drowns it out.

When he checks his watch and puts in his earpiece, EOS informs him that the tornado watch has been lifted. She fills him in on the updates she collected while he’d been sleeping: no major damage reported in the immediate area. All basic infrastructure in the county seems undamaged. The worst-hit areas, two counties east, seem to have suffered some building damage and the GDF are currently working on restoring power, but there are no casualties. 

Nevertheless, John makes a mental note to donate something for the rebuilding effort. It’s the least he can do, since his family couldn’t help in their usual way.

Eventually John rises, picking his way across his brothers’ sleeping bodies by the combined scant lights of his watch and the neon numbers displayed on the DVD and datachip players stacked underneath the TV. He’ll grab his bag and head upstairs, ready to take the storm shutters down and–

“‘S m’rnin’?” 

The sound of Scott mumbling nearly gives John a heart attack. One of the shapes on the floor shifts.

“Morning?” John whispers. “No, no, it’s still night. Go back to sleep, Scott.”

Scott mumbles something even more unintelligible, but doesn’t try to argue. He– assuming that it’s him and not one of their other brothers inside that sleeping bag– moves briefly before going still again. John breathes a sigh of relief before grabbing his bag and heading upstairs. 

It takes just a few minutes to reset the shutters. By the time they’ve finished rolling back up, John’s washed his face and brushed his teeth, and so he heads over to the kitchen to begin what’s become his daily routine. Make coffee, check his e-mails and messages– especially those from the Tracy Industries C-Suite, or from Penny, Brains or Ridley. Continue writing that paper for the research seminar in Otago coming up in July. 

When the sun starts rising, so will his family. And as much as he loves them, having this small amount of solitude is nice. It’s not the same as his quiet, organised routine on Five, but it’s as close as he’s going to get for now.

As the horizon slowly starts to brighten, John lets himself out of the back door, takes a brisk walk around the farm. There isn't much damage from the storm- there are broken tree branches littering the grounds, but that's more or less all. John ends up jogging a couple loops of the perimeter before heading back inside for a shower and a change of clothes. While he doesn’t need daily workouts when Earthside– the two-hour workouts on Five are mostly to counteract the effects of zero-gravity on his body– it does feel good to exert himself.

Today's outfit is a casual suit Penny gifted him a couple years ago. Deep teal linen, to match his eyes, with a cream-coloured shirt, and brown loafers. Not as stiff and formal as the suits he'd worn in New York, but not as comfortable as his favourite shirt and jeans. Just serious enough for today’s task, reassuring his employees and any townsfolk he’s likely to meet, while being just casual enough that he can actually relax.

Virgil's cutting fruit for breakfast when John re-enters the kitchen, cool water dripping down his collar. Gordon’s standing at the stove, clad in his hideous brightly-patterned pyjamas, dumping milk and oats and sugar into a pot.

“No storm damage,” John tells them. "Just some broken branches."

“Mmh,” Virgil grunts. He yawns. He isn’t looking his best– there are dark circles under Virgil’s eyes and his curls have largely fallen out of their gelled pompadour. He’s still in his sleepwear: a pair of green flannel pants and an old henley. John takes pity and pours him a generous cup of coffee. 

“You shouldn’t play with knives until you’re caffeinated,” Gordon says.

Virgil rolls his eyes, but drains the proffered cup anyway. 

“Where’s mine, anyway?” Gordon pouts, looking John dead in the eyes with the puppy-dog gaze that, regrettably, always works. 

“You need to be more patient,” John tells him, pouring coffee into Gordon’s favourite yellow mug before making a beeline for the bread box. “Isn’t it a little early for you?”

“Virgil’s alarm woke me up,” Gordon shrugs. “Scott, too, but he fell back asleep pretty quickly.”

“You didn’t have to get up,” Virgil mumbles, shooting Gordon a hurt look.

“Yeah, I did, big guy,” Gordon reaches over, pats Virgil on the shoulder. “Someone’s gotta make sure you don’t run yourself into the ground.”

That's true. They're all busy these days, but Virgil's got the biggest workload of all- and it's only going to get worse once they're at Gran Roca. Guilt weighs heavy in John’s stomach: he shouldn't be looking forward to Gran Roca, not when he knows how much Virgil is going to have to shoulder. 

Not for the first time, he wonders what the hell had been running through Scott's head when he made that living will. Grandma’s duties make sense, at least– she was a doctor, and still keeps her medical license renewed. John should be the one in charge of International Rescue in Scott’s stead: it's barely a half-step up from his duties as Space Monitor on Five, and he has EOS to help. Gordon should be doing all this business and financial stuff. He's good with people, and he's much more sensible than his garish shirts suggest– why didn’t Scott update his will when Gordon turned eighteen? That would have left Virgil with only Scott's daily care and legal stuff to worry about.

John sighs, shaking his head as he pops a sliced bagel into the toaster. Scott probably didn’t update anything because that was around the time International Rescue was re-starting. Knowing Scott, he probably made a note of it, but it slipped away in all the chaos. 

“Do you think it was a bad idea?” Virgil asks, breaking the silence that’s fallen between them.

“What?” Gordon asks, slurping his coffee.

“Coming here instead of staying at the island.”

Good question. Staying at the island would be easier in a lot of ways. Less expensive, for sure. But it’d be harder, too. There are a lot of staircases, a lot of steep drops without railings, a lot of places Scott could get himself hurt– and that’s not considering the jungle surrounding the villa. It’s a nice jungle, sure, but it’s definitely a jungle, and John is ever-thankful for Brains’ ingenuity in ensuring that venomous spiders and snakes can’t infiltrate their house or hangars. 

“I think you made the best choice you could,” John replies, because there simply isn’t an ‘easy’ option. His bagel pops out of the toaster with a soft clanking noise.

“Just…” Virgil starts, and then he stops. “I guess I thought he’d remember the good stuff here.”

Oh. So Virgil wasn’t worried about the practicality of his choice, as John assumed. He’s worried about Scott’s nightmare last night.

"Wasn't he humming yesterday?" Gordon asks. “He is remembering the good stuff.”

“Like air-raids and a traumatic birth,” Virgil raises an eyebrow. “Yeah.”

“Life isn’t only nice things, you know,” John reminds him. “He’d remember all of that eventually. Anyway, it was a dream, so I'm pretty sure he's forgotten most of the details again."

Virgil purses his lips, but doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t say anything for a while– not until he finishes cutting the fruit, plopping the slices into a large bowl and dumping the cutoffs into a compost bag. 

“I’m gonna take a shower before I wake Scott,” he mutters. 

John nods, waving him off. 

Breakfast is a subdued affair, when it starts. Everybody is quiet, the air hanging heavy. Even Alan can't seem to work up the energy to do much smiling. John catches Grandma looking quizzically at Virgil at several points; it's clear she's noticed that something is amiss. 

It’s almost a relief when John’s phone bleeps, to let him know that the driver and security team are ready for him. Kayo's been very insistent that anytime anybody wants to leave the property alone, they need security with them. John isn't stupid enough to argue with his sister.

The car is empty, save for the driver. He doesn't say a word when John enters. John's not quite sure whether one is supposed to greet drivers– Penny is the only person with a personal driver he spends any significant time with, and Parker is more like her uncle than her servant. 

"Hi," John mutters, awkwardly fumbling with his seatbelt. Better to be too nice than too cold. 

The driver doesn't say anything, just nods into the rearview mirror before pulling away from the porch.

The drive is short, but it feels long. Four weeks ago, John wouldn’t have even considered taking security on a short trip to Uncle Frank’s office. But then four weeks ago, Scott was… well, Scott. Everything was fine. Nobody– save the Hood –wanted to hurt them. 

John watches the fields fly past as the driver heads toward town. They pass an empty garbage can in a ditch by the roadside--he's pretty sure he heard it last night– but otherwise the roads are fairly clean. Someone must've swept away the debris already. 

Before long, familiar blue-and-white buildings come into sight, topped with shiny solar panels, behind a silver chain-link fence. 

Tracy Aerospace. Where it all started.

Dad’s little engineering business, which had somehow managed to bloom into a conglomerate that provided the tech research and sheer amounts of money needed to found International Rescue. 

A blue-painted warehouse on the outskirts of town, bought from one of Grandpa’s friends. They’d passed it almost every day on the way to school, and at one point it had seemed as though every year brought something new to the site: an airstrip, a new office building, a second warehouse, a new fence encompassing the plot of land next door too, a bus stop… by the time John had headed off to Oxford for university, Tracy Aeronautics was the biggest employer in the county, and the single acre Dad started with had expanded into a vast state-of-the-art campus that covered several hectares. 

The driver stops at the front gate, shows an ID card to the security guard, and gets waved through to the main parking lot. Although it’s early, there are a number of vehicles here already: a minibus, a couple cars, several cycles. 

The campus looks the same as always. Glass-fronted, white-painted office buildings surround a main plaza with the production facility and R&D departments housed in vast blue-painted warehouses hidden behind those, and the airfield lying to the west. There’s greenery everywhere, pretty little shrubs and grasses decorating the plaza and its carefully-sculpted rock gardens.

Technically, John doesn’t need to be here. Technically, he doesn’t need to be anywhere at all. 

Most of Scott’s CEO work consists of staying up-to-date on business reports, attending just enough meetings to keep shareholders and the c-suite happy, and analysing the financial markets. Almost all of that can be done remotely; and that's exactly what Scott used to do, neatly slotting his business obligations around International Rescue. 

If nothing else, being seen here will keep the press off John’s back– which has the added bonus of stabilising stock values– and hopefully boost employee morale. According to the reports he’s been receiving, Tracy Industries employees are pretty shaken up about… well… everything. Which is to be expected, really.

The press conference in New York had helped, but there are still a number of employees– namely, those Scott had worked closely with– who were still worried. Not that John can blame them. Scott had done his best to appear confident, but he'd still been noticeably spacey and not-quite-himself as he repeated the answers John had whispered into his earpiece. 

'Worried' is a pretty good way to describe their hometown, too. Just about everybody John's encountered over the last week has said some variation of the same thing: "Is Scott okay? He looked simply awful on TV the other day. How are you all holding up?". 

At least in New York people were mostly too busy with their own lives to bother them– that is, those who weren’t reporters. But here, in the town they all grew up in, anonymity is impossible . 

Everybody knows them. Everybody cares . That’s a lot of people to reassure.

Good thing John specialises in reassurance. It’s true that he mostly soothes disaster victims, rather than employees, but this is still familiar territory. He can do this. He just has to walk in with his head held high, like he belongs here, and act like everything is fine. 

The car comes to a halt at the pick-up area next to the plaza. A familiar-looking man stands near the curb, dressed in a simple shirt and slacks, a bright smile breaking across his face as John clambers out of the backseat. From the corner of his eye, John can see the security detail car stopping a few feet behind the car that brought him.

“There you are!” Uncle Frank booms. He doesn’t go in for a hug, like most relatives, and he doesn’t go for a handshake, like most businessmen. He knows John too well, even though they haven’t seen each other in what feels like forever. Instead, he just waves and waits for John to come to him. 

Uncle Frank hasn’t changed at all since John last saw him, save that there are more streaks of silver in his sandy-blond hair and a few more wrinkles around his eyes. He’s tall, like Dad was, with the same grey eyes and straight nose. 

“It’s good to see you,” John says. Even though it’s been a while, Uncle Frank has the same kind of comforting demeanour as Dad and Grandpa Grant did. It must run in the family. 

“How have you been?” Uncle Frank asks. “I mean, aside from the obvious.”

“We’re doing good as can be,” he says. “I guess Grandma told you everything?”

“More or less,” Uncle Frank agrees. “We were really sorry to hear about Scott. But, you know, he’s a real bright spark. All you boys are. If anybody can bounce back from this, it’s him.”

John hopes so. 

“Thank you,” John says. “I’m sorry we haven’t been around lately. Grandma said you wanted to come meet us at the house sooner, but…”

“We figured you’d appreciate the space,” Uncle Frank says. “You fellas are just like your dad, and your dad was just like me and Madison. No need to worry, I get it.” Then he leans in and murmurs: “Your uncle Adam’s a different story, though, good thing he lives in Cali.”

Is that a joke? John chuckles, just in case it is.

“So, I guess I’m giving you the grand tour today,” Uncle Frank says. “Office or production first?”

The office will have fewer people at this time of day– it’s barely past eight-thirty. John’s mostly just here to look like he’s doing something. Production is probably a better option. 

“Production,” John says, and Uncle Frank cheerfully steers him into the foyer of the main office building, then out through the back door, which leads to a wide, landscaped road, and the warehouse production facility beyond. 

Or at least that’s the plan. 

“Excuse me!” a voice calls. Unfamiliar, male. 

“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to stop…” 

John glances back, to see a man in an old-fashioned grey suit and a fedora trying to squeeze past three security guards, who have formed a physical barrier behind John. 

“Oh, you don’t have to worry about me, I only need a minute!” the man replies. He looks several years older than Uncle Frank, with a pencil-thin brown moustache sitting atop his upper lip. “Mister Tracy, sir!” 

“Uh…” John glances at Uncle Frank, then back at the strange man, who’s staring directly at him with a wide smile. He clears his throat. “It's Doctor Tracy, actually, if you don’t mind. Is there a problem?”

“Oh, more than you could ever know!” the man replies, and he thrusts a hand between the security guards, as though offering a handshake. John doesn’t take it. “The name’s Selsden, and I’m here on behalf of Mister Grafton.”

“Grafton?”

It takes John a few seconds to connect the dots. Grafton. Warren Grafton, the pompous monorail guy. The pompous monorail guy he’s supposed to have a meeting with in a couple weeks. 

“Yeah, see Mister Grafton thought that perhaps you didn’t have enough information to make up your mind about his business proposal, so he sent me here to help you out a little. But, uh, your goons seem to have other ideas.”

John glances at the security detail, still providing a very physical barrier between himself and this Selsden guy. That he followed the family here from New York is weird , but not necessarily worrying – it’s public knowledge that they’re back in Kansas, and a quick web search would show that this campus is the birthplace of Tracy Industries. 

“I already arranged a second meeting with Grafton at the end of the month,” John says. “Can’t this wait?”

“Of course not!” Selsden cries. “The Pacific-Atlantic monorail is a time-sensitive project! If it’s ever going to get off the ground, we need investment– and we need it as soon as possible!” 

John glances at Uncle Frank again. He doesn’t look particularly impressed by Selsden, but he doesn’t look particularly annoyed either. Not that John is very good at reading faces– he’s much better with tone of voice. 

Uncle Frank catches John’s glance and gives him an almost-imperceptible shrug. Then he mouths two words: 

Your choice.

If John refuses Selsden, is Grafton going to follow the family to Gran Roca? That would be bad– they won’t have time for him and his monorail with International Rescue back in action. If he just listens to the guy, there's a good chance that'll be enough to appease him. Most people just want to feel heard.

“I have a few minutes,” John says, reluctantly. “I’ll hear you out, but I can’t promise any decision today. Like I told your employer, I need to consider investment opportunities very carefully. My family legacy is extremely important to me.”

“Of course! Completely understandable!” Selsden exclaims, and the guards reluctantly step aside, allowing the man to approach. 

“There’s a meeting room just through here,” Uncle Frank says, stepping into the gleaming foyer.

“Capital!” Selsden grins.

John bites back a groan as he follows them. He hopes he won’t regret this. 

Chapter Text

“What about this one?”

Heavy drums thump through the living room speakers, a series of staccato notes joining the rhythm in bass guitar and synth. A popular clubbing anthem— or at least Gordon thinks it’s a popular clubbing anthem. He doesn’t really go clubbing a whole lot these days. It’s the kind of music Scott usually doesn’t have much of an opinion.

Scott’s brows furrow. He shifts in place, stretched out on the couch, and lifts his head to crack an eye open in their direction.

“I don’t know,” he says, and then Alan whacks his arm with a cushion.

“No peeking! The video is gonna spoil it, remember?”

Scott holds his hands up in surrender and flops back down.

“Okay, okay, no peeking,” Scott mutters, and he scrunches his eyes closed again, crossing his arms.

Gordon waits about thirty seconds more, after the bass drops, before prodding Scott again.

“Well?” he asks.

Scott sighs.

“I mean, I don’t not like it,” he says. “I feel kind of… I dunno, energised, I guess. And I like the singer, she sounds good. But the drums are giving me a headache.”

“Sorry, man,” Gordon hisses through his teeth, turning the song off. “You need more painkillers?”

Scott purses his lips, tapping his fingers against his arms.

“No, I think it’s fine,” he says. “Let’s just move on.”

The next song is one of Scott’s favourites: a classic rock group from Grandma’s time— or maybe even before that. An exciting electric guitar line, accompanied by frantic drums and throaty vocals.

“Nope,” Scott lifts a hand, makes a shooing motion. “This one’s a ‘no’.”

Interesting, Gordon thinks. Either he’s been playing up how much he likes this band this whole time, or the brick really did screw with his taste.

“You don’t like it?” Alan asks, eyes wide, voice barely above a whisper.

“I don’t like having a headache,” Scott corrects him, and Alan immediately relaxes. “Next.”

Oh. That makes sense, too.

“I’m giving you a patch,” Gordon says, snatching up the box Virgil gave him earlier, and heading over to the couch.

Scott scowls, but doesn’t try to shimmy away while Gordon peels the old one off and sticks a new one below his ear. If he were well, Scott would’ve at least tried to bat his arm away, or insisted on sticking the patches on himself. Maybe if they’re lucky, this good behaviour will stick around after Scott regains his memory.

“I said I was fine,” Scott mutters under his breath, when Gordon stands.

“Yeah, but you never leave us alone when we say that to you,” Gordon tells him. “I told you before, didn’t I? It’s my turn to smother you. The turntables have turned, as they say.”

“I don’t think that’s what they say,” Alan says, from his place hunched over the holo-display unit, where he’s been selecting new songs to play for the last half hour.

“I don’t remember that,” Scott cracks one eye open, squinting up at Gordon.

“It was when you were in hospital,” Gordon says. That first post-brick meeting, where Scott’d been a barely-cogniscant ghost, constantly needing help from Virgil or Grandma. Unable to recognise them, unable to hold a cup without assistance, unable to recall the fact that Mom and Dad were both long gone. It’s probably better that Scott doesn’t remember that day.

“Oh,” Scott’s eye closes again, and he relaxes into the pillows strewn around him. “I guess that checks out. Allie, what’s next?”

“A song,” Alan replies. “Are your eyes closed?”

“Scout’s honour,” Scott replies.

“Yes, they are,” Gordon confirms, and Alan plays the next song.

This time it’s something soft and instrumental, soothing piano and violin, and a couple others Gordon doesn’t know the name of. There are vocals, but they’re not saying anything in particular: it’s just a female voice harmonising with the instruments. Sounds almost like the background to a fantasy video game… which, knowing Alan, this probably is.

Cavern Quest? Gordon mouths to Alan. Alan immediately turns pink.

It’s good , Alan mouths back.

"It's… nice," Scott says, after a few seconds. "Soothing. I like the girl. Who is she?" 

"Uh…" Alan quickly brings up a search engine. "She's not a singer. She's married to one of the developers." 

"Married?" Scott sounds disappointed. "Urgh. Okay, what’s next up?”

So he likes it because of the girl? In that case…

“I’ll pick this one, Alan,” Gordon grins, leaning over Alan to type in the searchbar. He pulls up a female soloist, who specialises in the sort of formulaic pop Scott generally doesn’t enjoy. 

It’s the kind of music that Virgil always scoffs at - intended to make money rather than evoke emotion or tell a story. It’s the song that’s been stuck in Gordon’s head for the past few days, ever since he and John heard it being played in the grocery store. It’s upbeat and fun, and very, very catchy. And, perhaps most crucially, there are no heavy drums or bass in this particular song: the percussion is soft, barely-there under the layers of synth and strings. 

Really? Alan mouths, and then after a moment of thought he switches to very rusty ASL: SCOTT HATES THIS. 

WAIT, Gordon signs back, deliberately slightly slower than he would normally. I THINK HE LIKES IT. FIFTY DOLLARS, BET?

Alan frowns, processing the sentences. 

TWENTY , he replies, then reaches out for a fist-bump. Gordon obliges, and then he reaches out to poke Scott in the ribs. 

“Well?”

“Uh…” Scott frowns, a crease forming between his brows. “It’s fine, I guess.” 

“You guess?” Alan asks. “What does that mean.”

“Is that a yay or a nay?” Gordon presses, poking Scott again. “C’mon, man, I have money riding on this.”

Scott cracks an eye open, swatting Gordon’s hand away as he sits up again. 

“Hey!” he says, in a warning tone, before being distracted by the music video playing behind Alan. His brows shoot up, and he blinks. “ Oh . It’s a yay from me.”

Strange. Gordon had expected a lukewarm ‘yes’, not an enthusiastic one. He glances over Alan’s shoulder, to find the answer staring him in the face: the singer and a small troupe of dancers shimmying around a beach-themed set in floaty sarongs and swimwear. Scott’s always had an eye for the ladies. 

“Oh, come on!” Alan protests, grabbing the same cushion as before. “You don’t like her music , you like her looks ! That’s why we told you to keep your eyes shut!” 

“Looks like you owe me twenty bucks,” Gordon says, sweetly.

“Nuh-uh, you guys are cheating,” Alan argues. 

“Maybe I was just lying about not liking her before,” Scott adds, sitting up and slinging an arm around Gordon’s shoulders. “Y’know, trying to seem manly and stuff. Hey, does she always dress like that, Gords?”

“Only on tour, I think.”

“ See? ” Alan squawks indignantly, turning pink in what can only be a mixture of anger and embarrassment. “It doesn’t count if you only like her ‘cause she’s wearing a bikini!” 

“Wasn’t it my birthday a couple days back? I don’t remember you giving me any gifts, Gords,” Scott says, in that faux-confused voice he always used to use when teasing. He’s clearly trying to act casual, but a grin keeps breaking out across his lips, his voice uneven. 

“Because you wanted to have a non-birthday birthday, big guy,” Gordon replies, in the exact same tone of voice. Unlike Scott, he doesn’t try to repress his smile. 

“Well, I only said that because I didn’t know what I wanted,” Scott says, biting his lip in a vain attempt to stop himself giggling: Gordon can see his dimples deepening despite his efforts, can feel the shudders reverberating through his body.

“And you know now?” Gordon asks, keeping a surreptitious eye on Alan’s increasingly reddened face. He’s going to flip when Scott unleashes this punchline. “Well, what do you want?”

“I think I want concert tickets,” Scott says, a tremor slipping through his voice on the word ‘concert’, his smile breaking through again on ‘tickets’. He barely keeps it together long enough to finish his demand: “To my favourite singer.”

“ No !” Alan whines, and the cushion clutched in his hands quickly becomes a devastating weapon in the fight to keep what little dignity they all still possess. “You guys are the worst !” 

Scott simply laughs ‘til he’s bent half-double, tears streaming from his eyes, which means Gordon has to grab the cushion he was sitting on to defend them both from Alan’s vengeance. 

“We are,” Scott chokes, between helpless fits of giggles. “We’re the worst .” 

“You’re too easy, kiddo!” Gordon dodges Alan’s cushion, aims a hard swipe at his back. “Too easy, I tell you!” 

They’re interrupted by Grandma in the doorway. 

“I hope you’re not too busy killing each other to eat,” she says, mildly, and that’s all it takes for them to drop the cushions and straighten up, their battle all but forgotten. 

“There’s no killing here,” Gordon says, in his best innocent voice. Beside him, Alan carefully tries and fails to straighten the throw on the couch, thanks to a still-giggling Scott lying on it. “Unless you count this guy dying from laugher.”

“Better from laughter than anything else,” Grandma says, arching one eyebrow at him before leaning down to shake Scott’s shoulder. “Scotty, dear, how about getting cleaned up for lunch?”

“Uh-huh,” Scott manages, levering himself upright again. Grandma presses a tissue – where on earth had she gotten that? – into his hand, rubbing his back as he sucks in deep breaths.  

Gordon makes sure the cushions are stacked on a nearby armchair, then washes his hands and heads over to the kitchen. As always, Virgil is already there. This time he’s pulling a baking sheet out of the oven, the tantalising smell of toasting bread and tomato in the air. A steaming pot sits on a heatproof mat in the middle of the table, bright orange visible through the glass of the lid, and there are bowls set in front of each chair.

“Grilled cheese and tomato soup?” Gordon asks. The baking sheet was Dad's old trick, to get a lot of hungry teenage boys fed quickly.

“There are hidden vegetables in the soup, but yeah,” Virgil nods, setting the tray on the counter, next to a stack of salad plates. He grabs a kitchen knife and starts slicing the sandwiches diagonally, before plopping each one onto a plate. “Here, put these on the table, will you?”

Gordon obliges, and by the time each chair has a corresponding grilled cheese, the kitchen is full of family. Only one seat remains empty: John’s. 

“Wasn’t he supposed to be back by now?” Alan asks, gesturing with his spoon.

“He called earlier and said there was a delay,” Grandma tells him. “Apparently they had an unexpected visitor. Mm, this is very good, Virgil.”

“It is,” Scott adds. He frowns at the tomato stains on his shirt. “Kinda messy, though.”

“Glad you like it.”

“What kind of unexpected visitor was it?” Gordon asks. Tracy Industries doesn’t get ‘unexpected visitors’. “Press, right?”

“I guess so,” Virgil shrugs. “He didn’t say.”

“I thought we dealt with the press,” Scott says, frowning again. “Do I have to do something else?”

“I’m sure it’s fine,” Grandma tells him, laying a hand on his arm. “You did a great job at the press conference. John will let us know what happened soon, and we’ll issue a statement if it’s needed. You just focus on getting better, dear.”

Scott looks down at his food. He nods.

“Okay,” he mutters, and dunks his spoon again.

“So, what is everybody doing after lunch?” Virgil asks, in the third- or possibly fourth-most awkward attempt at surreptitiously changing the subject that Gordon has ever heard.

“I dunno,” Alan says. “I kinda feel like we’ve done everything.”

“Could head down into town,” Gordon suggests. “The old arcade is still open, and somebody owes me twenty bucks.”

“I do not!” Alan protests. 

“Oh, he most assuredly does,” Gordon grins at Virgil. “And speaking of, we’ve just discovered Scott’s favourite musician– other than you, of course.”

“You did not!” Alan hisses, because he’s far too easy to rile up. 

“Oh, so that’s what you boys were doing just now…” Grandma murmurs.

“What are you talking about? You re-introduced him to AC/DC?” Virgil asks, raising one eyebrow in confusion. 

“No, even better!” Gordon grins. “It’s–”

Gordon doesn’t get a chance to get Virgil in on the joke, too, because that’s when the front door slams, and at the end of the hallway is a familiar, red-headed figure toeing off his shoes.

“Hey, John!” Alan’s on his feet immediately, greeting their brother with a big hug as soon as he steps into the kitchen. Virgil wordlessly rises to fix his plate and ladle out some soup.

“Hey, Alan,” comes the fond reply, and John ruffles Alan’s hair before sitting down. “Sorry I’m late. Thanks, Virge.”

“Word on the street is you got an unexpected visitor,” Gordon says, conversationally. He dips one sandwich half in his soup. Mm, that’s good.

“By ‘on the street’, do you mean ‘in the kitchen’?” John asks. He scoops up a spoonful of soup, then grimaces. “Is there carrot in this?”

“No,” Virgil says. He’s never been very good at lying. “It’s… sweet potato.”

“Sweet potato that happens to taste like carrot?” John asks. In all fairness, Gordon can’t fault him for not liking the vegetable– Gordon would probably feel the same if he’d been stuck with that nickname all through school. It doesn’t help that the clock next to the sink shows that it’s almost one o’clock. John’s normally heading to bed about now. 

“You’re welcome to cook your own lunch, John,” Virgil says, in the mild way that Gordon has learnt to fear. He still has those circles under his eyes, his shoulders slumped. He’s probably been cooking all morning. That and reading all the legal stuff the GDF sent him. 

Both tired, both cranky, both grouchy. A recipe for disaster. 

Before either brother can make the situation worse, Gordon jumps in.

“Uh, hello?” he asks. “Where’s my hot gossip? Did you get a visitor or not? Was it a secret admirer?”

Both brothers turn their attention to him. 

“Oh, that?” John looks uncomfortable. “Uh… not an admirer. I hope. He worked for someone I met in New York.”

Gordon leans forward. 

“New York?” Scott asks, through a mouthful of grilled cheese. Grandma touches his shoulder, murmuring something Gordon can’t hear but is almost certainly a gentle reminder to chew and swallow his food before speaking, because Scott puts his sandwich down and grabs his water glass.

“Well…” John pauses, thinking for a second. “Scott, does the name ‘Grafton’ mean anything to you?”

Scott swallows his water, setting the glass down.

“Sorry,” he says, with a quick shake of his head.

“I thought so,” John murmurs. He takes another mouthful of soup, but whatever’s going on in his head has distracted him from whatever hangups he had about the taste. “What about the Pacific-Atlantic Monorail Company?”

Scott shrugs. 

“It’s a transport company, I guess? I don’t remember it.”

“Their CEO had a meeting pencilled in with you on the day of the, uh, attack,” John says.

“And since I got bricked and he couldn’t see me, he’s trying to see you instead?” 

“He already spoke to me, back in New York,” John clarifies. “He wanted funding for a cross-Atlantic monorail line connecting North America with northwestern Europe. I told him I’d need time to think about it.”

“Why?”

“It’s not the kind of project we normally– that you normally invest in,” John says. “Our dad founded Tracy Aerospace in order to create transport systems that didn’t exist yet, that could be used to better the world. Today, about twenty percent of commercial air and spacecraft are Tracy-designed, and the parts we make can be used in upwards of thirty percent of all other craft. We’re cutting-edge leaders in green, efficient transport options.”

“So no trains?” Alan pipes up. He probably hasn’t heard most of this stuff before, since he’s still in school.

“It’s not that,” John shakes his head briefly. “We do own several companies that specialise in rail and land freight. The problem is that what Grafton mentioned wasn’t groundbreaking or efficient in any way. It didn’t sound comfortable or interesting for customers, either. Today, his man Selsden tried to convince me to invest, but it was more of the same.”

“Did you agree?” Gordon asks. 

“Of course not,” John shakes his head. “Selsden seemed to have a Fischler approach to safety. He couldn’t answer any of my questions. Our name is synonymous with quality, and I don't want to ruin that.”

“Is a Fischler approach bad?” Scott whispers to Grandma, who nods. 

“Wait, hang on– you met Grafton in New York?” Virgil asks. “And then Selsden here? Unexpectedly?”

“It’s a little weird, but they could’ve just guessed,” John picks up one half of his grilled cheese. “We mentioned going ‘home’ for a vacation at the press conference. Tracy Aeronautics started here. Our names are on all kinds of public records here.”

“It’s kind of creepy,” Alan mutters, which is pretty much exactly what Gordon had been thinking. 

“I’m sure it’s fine,” Virgil says, in his very best reassuring voice. Which, in Gordon’s opinion, was not very reassuring at all unless one happened to be a rescue victim. “They’re probably just overzealous. Or greedy.”

“My money’s on greedy,” Alan mutters. He looks anxious, his mouth twisted up along with his shoulders. 

The rest of the table seems to share Alan’s mood. Grandma’s mouth is downturned, her hands squeezing Scott’s hand and shoulder. Scott himself is frowning, much like Virgil, though Scott’s mouth is tighter, and Virgil’s brows are lower. John’s mouth is a little sloped, as are his shoulders. The air itself feels heavy, tense.

Distraction. They need a distraction. Something to lighten the mood. 

“Speaking of ‘greedy’,” Gordon says, shooting Alan his evillest grin, “someone owes me twenty dollars.”

And it’s like a switch has been flipped: the tension in the air dissipates in a flash as Alan gasps in outrage beside Gordon. 

“I do not! ”