[May 24th] [Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego?] Winter Has Come For Me

[insaneladybug.livejournal.com]

Title: Winter Has Come For Me
Day/Theme: May 24th - Just an earthbound misfit, I
Series: Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego?
Character/Pairing: Fictional Rockapella, Greg, Eartha Brute
Rating: T/PG-13

Will be cross-posted to ladybug_tales.


Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego?
Winter Has Come For Me
By Lucky_Ladybug

Notes: The characters and the song are not mine and the story is! It was inspired by the episode Chumps D'Elysees, and though I have intended to write it for a while, it was seeing the prompt Just an earthbound misfit, I at 31 Days that spurred me to get it done. This entire piece is very dark, in keeping with Scott's descriptions of how Eartha Brute tortured him. And while it was inspired by the episode, it takes quite a different direction in the second half, one that seems more in keeping with the serious tone. As always, fictional Rockapella from the show only! No Real Person fic here! Many thanks to Crystal Rose and Kaze for plot help!


The semi-conscious form swayed, falling back against the wall of the moving delivery truck as the tires ran over a sharp bump. Through bleary eyes he gazed at the opposite wall, where the doors with their rectangular windows were shut and locked against the possibility of escape.

Not that he would be able to get out even if the way was open. His feet were weighed down, forcing him to remain standing in his bedraggled, drenched state. A stray piece of seaweed was still wrapped around him, effective as a rope. A real rope was tied around his arms, pinning them to his sides. His hat was askew, falling over his half-open blue-green eyes.

A cough choked to his lips, bringing with it bits of the Venezuelan water he had swallowed. He really felt like he was going to retch, but there was nothing to even get rid of except water, water, and more water. He was going to be having nightmares about being surrounded by water for a long time . . . or at least for as long as he managed to survive.

Pained cries echoed through his memories---his own cries, as he had been tortured by Eartha Brute. He had been tailing her after she had purloined the Arch D'Triumph from France. And though he had tracked her to South America without her knowledge, she had still managed to find out about his presence---and she had felt particularly sadistic.

"Ooh, an ACME agent, huh?" she had taunted as they stood face-to-face. She had lashed out, delivering a harsh blow to his midsection that had sent him crashing to the sands of the beach. Then she had placed a heavy foot on his sore stomach, pressing down as he had gasped and choked in anguish.

"You're the little guy who's always getting trounced by us." Her smirk had been cruel as she had taken her foot away, lifting the struggling body into the air with one hand. "I think it's about time I learned you your lesson, for good."

With that she dragged him to her boat waiting on the shore, delivering a mind-numbing punch to his left cheek as they arrived. His head snapped back, but there was no chance to even recover before she was throwing him hard into the sand. Now he cried out, flinging out his hands to brace himself, but the side of the boat was too eager to say Hello. Stars swirled through his vision as he slumped to the beach, shuddering from the force of the second blow.

Something let out a furious hiss. Eartha yelped as if she had been attacked, shouting a stream of angry words at the culprit. Then something crashed, followed by a frightened yowl.

What was going on?! He fought to get his hands under him, pushing himself off the ground, but then a heavy foot was coming down on him again, forcing him back to the sand. He grimaced in disgust as sand found its way into his mouth.

He was only vaguely aware of Eartha approaching him again, tying a strong rope around his torso that bound his arms in place. She laughed, cruelly tugging on the rope as she threaded the other end onto the boat and fastened it in place.

He raised his head as much as he could. "Hey!" he exclaimed, spitting out the sand. "What are you . . ."

But he trailed off, crying out in horror as she pushed the boat into the Orinoco River and then jumped in to start the motor. The rope uncoiled, dragging him with the seacraft as it departed the shore altogether.

Water rushed into his mouth as he went under the surface. He clamped his lips shut, his eyes remaining wide open in terrified alarm. The sound of the motor above him was muffled and drowned out by the river sweeping over him and into his ears. Native fish swam past, giving him bewildered and confused looks, but he scarcely noticed.

He was going to die. She was keelhauling him under her motorboat, and if that did not kill him, she would find something else that would. Maybe he would get too close to the propeller and . . .

No, that was too horrible to think about! He would rather drown.

Even while he was frightened out of his mind for his life, frustration was coming over him too. This was his own fault. If he had just managed to stay completely hidden . . . ! But he was too soft-hearted. When he had seen the jaguar kitten caught in the wire, meowing pitifully, he had to come out and try to get it free. He had been afraid that Eartha would hear the sound and get annoyed, and even hurt the animal instead of helping it. And she had indeed heard and been annoyed, but when she had turned, she had seen him releasing the grateful kitten.

Of course, he did not regret setting it free. But if he had been able to move faster, before Eartha had seen him. . . .

Coming to think about it . . . had the kitten been trying to protect him?! The hissing sound he had heard right before Eartha yelled on the beach. . . . That could have been the kitten. And it could have scratched or bitten Eartha.

Had she hurt it?! She had thrown something, but maybe, hopefully, she had missed. . . . The subsequent yowl had just sounded scared, not hurt.

How long had he been under? His vision was failing. His lungs burned, screaming for oxygen. And he had none to give. Black spots began to collect in front of his eyes.

This was it, then. He was going to die alone, in the line of duty, and back home, his best friends would only hear the news later, maybe as his body was recovered at the bottom of the river. . . .

Inwardly he cried out in anguish. He could not leave them! He could not, and yet . . . how was he going to save himself?

The motor stopped. The rope tugged again as Eartha began to pull up the hapless ACME agent.

"Still alive, huh?" she said, dangling the semi-conscious form in the air in front of her.

He gasped, coughing and choking as air rushed back into his throat. His blond bangs were plastered against his forehead, some of them hanging into his eyes. But there was no time to look at anything before Eartha was pitching him to the floor of the boat. A weak, pained cry left his lips.

Now the seacraft started again. But the movement, coupled with the rough treatment he had just endured, was sending him into a strange state between awareness and unconsciousness. He could feel the boat moving under him. He could hear the sound of the motor and taste the river water in his mouth. And he felt Eartha periodically poking and prodding at him as they traveled.

Then the vehicle gave a violent jerk. He gasped, spitting out the rest of the water he had swallowed before the darkness closed in.

It was hard to say how long he was sprawled senseless in the boat. But it was still rocking underneath him when he began to stir. And now the motor was overhead. Yet . . . how could that be?

He froze in disbelief as he forced his eyes open. They were not even in the boat any more. They were in some kind of enclosed bubble. In front of him was an open door, letting in the humid Venezuelan air. The sun was beating down on the right, painfully heating that side of his body. He turned his head to look in that direction. A set of controls had been put on auto-pilot. The sun beamed through the windshield above them, shining on the metal and leather. And above that, there was some kind of propeller turning around on the roof.

A helicopter?!

"Oh, is the widdle agent awake?" Eartha mocked, somewhere above him.

He gritted his teeth. "Where are we?" he demanded, barely able to speak.

"You'll see," she said. "I had to borrow Wonder Rat's chopper to get around, but it'll be worth it."

Something clanked in her hands as the copter gave a jerk. He flinched, turning to stare at the heavy objects she was holding. What . . . what was she going to do with them?!

"I was wonderin' what I was gonna do with these cinderblocks," she sneered. "I didn't think they were good for much except hittin' people. Now thanks to you, I know what else they're good for."

". . . Huh?" he groaned.

But then he cried out in pain. She was bending down and wrenching something hard over his right foot. In desperation he kicked out with his left, but she grabbed hold of his ankle, laughing as she forced another hard, cold thing over it. As she let go, his foot crashed back to the floor of the helicopter.

His heart raced wildly as he looked over his shoulder. She had put the cinderblocks on his feet! And now he could barely move the lower half of his body at all. Every time he tried to shake the things off, they held fast, weighing his legs down. His feet had been pushed into a cold and gooey substance inside the blocks, something that had grabbed on and now would not let go.

No . . . was it really . . .

"I already poured the cement in," she grinned. "And it's quick-drying stuff, too!"

The poor man blanched. He had been right---she had found another way to kill him. She was going to dump him back in the water like this. And he would sink to Davy Jones' locker, a nameless murder victim. He would never be found now.

Sure enough, she seized his weakened body and threw him out the helicopter's door before he even had a chance to scream. "Bye bye, Dying Informant!" she called, her voice mocking. "Have fun in the big lake!"

"Lake?!" he gasped. Lake Maracaibo?!

He splashed into the water, sinking under the surface as the liquid again rushed into his mouth. He clamped it shut, horror sweeping over him. He was going to drown for sure. Even though he had decided he would rather drown than to meet a gory end, he did not really want to drown, either.

He hit the bottom of the lake hard, his mouth flying open again from the pain of impact. More water leaped inside, disappearing down his throat. He gasped, closing his mouth as he strained against the rope. He had to get out of this mess! Somehow he had to! . . . But who was he fooling? Even if he could break the bonds, he could never get out of the cement shoes before his air would run out.

Well, he was not going to give up! He fought harder, twisting and flailing on the lake bed. But it was no use---the rope held fast. He went slack, his shoulders heaving from the failed effort.

And he had used up almost all of his air. The water he had swallowed could not have helped, either. He groaned behind his closed lips, struggling one final time to rise before collapsing on the lake bed.

Something heavy landed in the water behind him, sending harsh shockwaves over the submersed ground. He gasped, his head suddenly pounding. He could not even turn to look.

Strong hands grasped his shoulders, the thick fingers digging into his upper arms as he was pulled upward. Suddenly he was breaking the surface, the hot sun beating down on him as he choked and gasped for air. What was going on now?! He tried to turn his head, but the pain flared unbearably.

"I thought of a better way to kill ya," Eartha smirked, tossing him back in the helicopter as it hovered over the water. She jumped in herself, sending it rocking and careening from side to side.

The poor agent shut his eyes against the swaying motions, spitting out the water rising into his mouth. She had nearly drowned him twice. What was she planning?! Or did he really want to know? She was doing this just to make a mockery out of him, to prove how powerless he was against someone of her strength. But the longer she stayed in Venezuela and tortured him, the greater chance there was of other ACME agents catching up. Why was she risking it? Did she hate him that bad? No . . . she did not have any malice against him specifically; just against what he stood for.

"Ya know, maybe you could've had a pretty good life if you'd joined V.I.L.E. instead of ACME," she said. "You wouldn't keep getting the stuffing beat out of you, 'cause ACME don't do that kinda thing to their enemies."

"I'm not a thief," he spat with the last bit of his waning strength.

"True, you probably wouldn't be a good one," Eartha said. "You can't do anything right."

He clenched a fist. That was not true . . . was it? He did not always have such a terrible time on assignments . . . though things usually seemed to go worse for him when he was by himself. When he was with the others, in general he fared much better. The Chief had noticed that too, and had regretted sending him out by himself this time, but there had not been any other choice.

But . . . for him to have such an awful time on a solo mission, maybe that meant he was an incompetent solo agent.

Or maybe he was just very ill-matched. He was not a weakling, but the others were better physical fighters than he was. Even so, they had all had trouble with Eartha. The only one who was a good match at all was Barry---and Eartha even towered over him.

"Kitty got your tongue?" Eartha taunted.

A weak smirk came over his features. He did have a comeback.

"I was just thinking," he mumbled, his voice scarcely discernible. "If you were a good thief, you wouldn't always get caught."

Eartha growled. "You won't feel like smilin' when you see what I've got in store for you," she said, delivering a harsh kick to his ribs.

His mouth opened in a pained gasp. If she had not just cracked something, she had definitely left a bruise.
****
It was hard to say how long they were in the air. The hot day, as well as the movement of the helicopter and his inability to move, lulled him into a troubled sleep. The copter continued to roar and sway even in his dreams. When his eyes finally flew open after a particularly sharp dip, it was mid-afternoon---and his stomach was so sick of him being everywhere except on solid ground that it was set to rebel.

He choked back a cough. That was the last thing he wanted to do with his tormentor watching.

Eartha smirked. "Rise and shine," she said, prodding him with her foot. "We're here."

"Where's here?" he rasped.

Instead of answering, she grabbed him in her beefy arms as she jumped out of the helicopter, landing on the flat ground below. The cinderblocks bumped over the rough terrain as she dragged him along, but he gritted his teeth and said nothing.

"You know where we are?" she called.

His blood chilled. The way she said it, she made it sound like it was a place he should know. And the sound of rushing, cascading water was getting louder. . . . No . . . it couldn't be. . . .

"Angel Falls!" Eartha chortled. "The highest waterfall in the world. And you know what I'm gonna do?"

No, no . . . oh, please God, no. . . .

"I'm gonna throw you overboard!" she declared. "And you're gonna fall down like . . . uh . . . like a guy with weights on his feet!"

If Sean was here, he would make an angry crack about her creative vocabulary. But he was not here. Neither were Elliott or Barry. They had all been sent on solo assignments, necessary since V.I.L.E. had pulled off several large heists all at once---and at a time when hardly any agents had been available.

Now they had seen their friend for the last time, and he them. He would never survive the fall to the bottom. Even if by some miracle he did, the weights would finish him off.

Maybe he was just not cut out for this line of work. Maybe none of them were. But he was the only one who got into predicaments like this. . . .

"Say goodbye, Dying Informant," Eartha sneered. "This time you're really gonna have your duck song." She blinked. "Wait, that don't sound right. Whatever. You're just gonna die!"

With that she heaved his body at the falls. A horrified, panic-stricken scream tore from his lips. He was hitting the water . . . being carried over the edge and down with it . . . being pushed faster and faster. . . .

"I don't want to die!" he cried out as consciousness left him again. "I don't want to . . ."

Water rushed over him, silencing his desperate plea.

Goodbye, Elliott . . .

Sean . . .

Barry . . .

Greg. . . .

I'm going to miss you guys.
****
The feeling of being carried was what was restored to him first. He groaned, coughing up some water that had made its way to his lips.

How strange. . . . He had not thought he would be bringing up water in the afterlife. . . .

He was alive? That was impossible, but . . .

"Okay, Dying Informant. You think you're so smart, huh?"

Eartha Brute. . . . She was carrying him! He tensed. What was she going to try now?! He was too weak to fight against anything she tried. And it felt like those weights were still on his feet. . . .

"You even survive goin' over Angel Falls. And if that don't beat all, you wash up on the shore! So here's what I'm gonna do. I'm shippin' you back to ACME with a delivery guy Carmen pays to do odd jobs. And boy, this is a real odd job!"

What? She was sending him home? Why? He forced his eyes open, struggling to put the bleary picture into focus. She was smirking. That was not a good sign.

"I'm makin' an example of you, see? When you get home lookin' like this, ACME'll see what V.I.L.E. can really do! And maybe that won't make 'em so cocky next time."

He clenched a fist. The others would be crushed. And Greg . . . Greg would have to realize that it was serious this time, instead of brushing it off thinking it was just a little injury that could easily be recovered from. Though . . . he hoped Greg really had changed by now and would not even consider brushing it off.

He had not wanted to die. Somehow that had been granted to him. But he also did not want to cause his friends pain by being returned to them like this, in such a battered state.

"I've already called him," Eartha said as they entered a clearing. "He'll be waitin' for you once you get back to the States. 'Course, I'm not goin' with ya. I'll just call ACME and let 'em know you're coming. And this part is really rich---he drives a van around pretending to be an ACME agent too!"

His lips parted. There was so much he wanted to say. He wanted to scream at her, censuring her for how she was going to hurt the people he loved. He wanted to say how much he hated what she had done to him.

Water was rising in his throat again. He gasped and choked, spitting the water in her face as she cried out in anger and indignation. But he could only fall back, slipping out of consciousness once more.

The next hours were only a blur, mostly spent out of awareness. But he did eventually feel himself being plunked down on his feet in a vehicle. And he heard a guy talking to someone else, telling him to go back to New York and deliver his "cargo." The second person responded in a voice that was familiar, but lacking any human feeling.

"Barry . . . ?" the poor agent mumbled. It sounded so much like him. Yet on the other hand, it did not sound like him at all. The delivery man must be Barry's double.

This day was so surreal. Maybe none of it had really happened.

He looked away from the locked doors, now staring listlessly at the nearest corner as he came back to the present. As much as he wanted to believe it was a dream, it must be real. He could not be hurting so badly if it was a dream.

The van bumped to a stop, causing him to sway again. Were they here? He straightened up, tensing at the sound of the driver's door opening and then slamming shut. The sound reverberated through the enclosed space and into his ears. He groaned, closing his eyes against the sudden pain. Strangely, that made them hurt worse. He opened them again, just as the back doors were unlocked and pulled open.

He could not help the gasp that left his lips at the sight of the driver. He looked just like Barry. But of course it was not; there was no recognition or kindness in the man's eyes. Instead he regarded the battered agent with boredom. He did not care about the other's predicament; he only cared about the paycheck he would receive for his services.

"We're at ACME now," he deadpanned, stepping inside and walking to the back of the van.

He was met with a glower, which swiftly turned to a deeply pained expression as he lifted the weakened form and carelessly hoisted him over a muscular shoulder. The unlucky blond stared at the metal floor of the vehicle, then at the drop leading down to the ground, and at the familiar alley, as he was carted along.

"I think I'm going to be sick," he moaned. Watching things move backwards was not helping his condition at all---to say nothing of being held like this, with the blood rushing to his head.

"Wait until I put you down," the delivery man said.

The agent gritted his teeth, contempt burning in his heart. Maybe if the guy did not look and sound so much like Barry, and maybe if he could not see the ACME logo on the creep's coveralls, it would not bother him so much.

Somewhere above them, Mrs. Pumpkinclanger let out a horrified scream. "You! What have you done to that man?!" she cried.

"It wasn't me; it was Eartha Brute," the delivery man said, balancing his cargo as he knocked on the door.

"Yeah, just a second," Greg called from inside.

The delivery man opened the door, walking in with the bedraggled agent. "You've got a delivery here," he said.

"Oh," Greg said. "Can you just set him down right about here?"

The blond stiffened, hurt stabbing into his heart. Even Mrs. Pumpkinclanger had sounded concerned about him. But Greg wasn't? He sounded almost as blasé as the creep bringing him in. And after ages of enduring such reactions from him, the Dying Informant had had enough. Despite his condition, the hurt he felt now was sharp enough to spur him to not take it in silence any longer.

"You're never here for me when I need you," he spat, his words slurring as he was set down on the cinderblocks. "You never help me!" He swayed, almost falling backwards.

A shaking arm went around his shoulders, catching and supporting him. "Scotty?! Scotty?!"

Greg sounded so different, so horrified, that Scott blinked, struggling to focus on his childhood friend. He looked devastated . . . haunted, even. . . .

"Oh my gosh, Scotty, I . . . I didn't know they were really bringing you. . . ." Greg gripped Scott's shoulders, staring at the drenched, ill agent. "I thought it was a crank call . . . or that Eartha was going to pretend to have someone bring you. . . ." He shook his head. "The things she said . . . I couldn't believe she'd really done to you. I couldn't believe you'd really survive all of it. . . ."

It was Scott's turn to look stricken. He had accepted and endured Greg's treatment for so long. After the incident at the bridge, he had thought they were closer again. And then to hear Greg's first words to the delivery man had opened the old wound and caused him to snap without thinking.

"Greg . . . I'm so sorry," he whispered, swaying forward this time.

Again Greg fought to catch him. "I deserved that!" he sobbed. He was hardly able to bear even looking at Scott in his condition. "I always deserved it. But you . . . you didn't deserve how I treated you. You didn't deserve what Eartha did to you today! Did . . . did she really do what she said? Keel-haul you on a river? Dump you in a lake? T-throw you over a waterfall?!"

"She did it," Scott mumbled. "It wasn't any old river and lake and waterfall, either. . . . It was t-the Orinoco River and . . . and Lake Maracaibo and . . . A-Angel Falls. And the things on my feet . . . I can't get them off. . . ."

"I'll take care of it," Greg promised. "Just . . . just hang on, Scotty! I . . . I'll get the medics up here . . ." He grabbed for the phone on his desk, dialing the infirmary extension.

Scott watched him through bleary eyes. He had misjudged Greg this time. It was understandable, considering both Greg's words and his past behavior, but Scott still felt horrible about it. If he was going to snap, it should have been during one of the times when Greg actually had been blasé. Greg had changed now. He realized Scott was hurt and was honestly concerned about his welfare.

The delivery man had already made his exit. He was probably heading back to V.I.L.E. to report on a successful mission and get his money. In some way, maybe Scott was a bit grateful to the creep. After all, he was home now, instead of laying somewhere in Canyon del Diablos at the bottom of Angel Falls.

Though whether he could stay home was debatable. . . .

No, he had vowed to live! And the others did not seem to be back yet. What if his body gave out and they came back to discover that he had died at ACME without them there? They would be so devastated. . . . None of them were likely to ever get over it, but El . . . poor El would be especially crushed.

The fog over his mind was getting stronger. And his legs were getting weaker. He had stood so long in the van. . . . He did not even know how long they had been driving, only that they had not started out in New York.

"Hello?!" Greg was saying into the phone. "I need medics up here ASAP. Eartha was telling the truth. She had some creep ship Scott back to us. And he's in bad shape! . . . Yeah, he was dragged through the river, thrown in the lake, tossed over the falls, all of that! And he's wearing cement shoes! . . . You heard me---cement shoes! Get someone up here right now!"

"Greg . . ." Scott rasped.

Greg slammed down the phone, whirling to look at the younger man. He blanched at the sight of Scott swaying forward, unable to stop himself from falling.

"No!" Greg exclaimed. "No, Scott, you can't die now! You can't!" He dived to grab Scott again, but this time he could not. Scott slammed onto the floor without even a groan, his world going dark.

Greg fell to his knees next to him, sobbing as he tore away the now-frayed rope and gathered the limp upper body into his arms. Scott did not respond, his head falling back as his soaking hair fluttered away from his neck.

"You were right, Scotty," Greg said. "I never was there for you. I never was . . . !"

He continued to cry as he knelt in his office, clutching the lifeless form.
****
He was falling, his screams echoing fruitlessly as the uncaring waterfall pushed him faster and faster. The drop was almost vertical, the raging torrents bearing down on his battered body like some kind of unrelenting, aqueous giant. He was bound both hand and foot, unable to flail, unable to grasp at any small ledge, unable to swim. . . .

He hit the water like a sack of bricks, sinking under the surface. The liquid rushed into his nose and mouth and down to his already-burning lungs. It was roaring in his ears, drowning out all other sounds.

But he could still hear in his mind.

Eartha was laughing at him.

"The Dying Informant always comes back, huh?" she sneered. "Let's just see you try to get out of this one!"

There really was no way out. He was being pulled to the bottom, courtesy of the cement shoes. And now all he could hear around him were heart-broken voices.

"Guys . . ." Greg was saying, choked with emotion, "he . . . he's gone. Scotty's gone. . . ."

For a moment there was dead silence. Then Elliott cried out in disbelieving anguish.

"No! No, he isn't! He can't be!"

Sean echoed the cry. "You're wrong!" he said. "He's going to be alright. He has to make it!"

"He didn't make it," Barry said in grief.

"They found him at the bottom of Angel Falls," Greg sobbed. "Eartha killed him."

"Then why don't we do something about her?!" Elliott screamed.

"We have to bring her to justice!" Sean yelled.

"We're going to." Barry's voice was dark and thick with heartache.

"I'll never forgive her," Elliott choked, hatred slipping into his voice. "She took Scott from us. We'll never sing with him or solve mysteries with him again. We'll never hear his laugh or see his smile. We've lost him." His voice dropped lower, but Scott could still discern his words.

"I hate her."

"We all do." Sean's voice was taut. ". . . Where is he?"

"H-he's here." There was the sound of Greg pulling back a sheet. Then there was only dead silence.

". . . Scott?" Elliott whispered at last, his footsteps echoing on the tiled floor as he went to the slab. "Scott . . . you . . . you're going to wake up, aren't you? You're not going to leave us. . . ."

Even though he was still sinking, he could feel Elliott's shaking hand brushing back his bangs. Tears slipped from his eyes, indiscernable in the water.

"Scott, wake up. . . . Please wake up . . . !"

". . . He can't wake up," Sean said at last. "He can't! He . . . he really is gone. . . ."

The shattered scream tore from Elliott's heart as he fell across Scott's upper body, hugging him close one final time. And deep in the river, still sinking to the bottom, Scott could feel and hear it. He screamed too.

"I want to live!" he sobbed in his mind. "I don't want to die! I don't want to leave them---El and Sean and Barry and Greg. . . . Please, God, let me live. . . . Somehow . . . please . . . please let me live! . . ."

He hit the bottom at the same moment his air and his strength ran out. Everything went black.
****
"Scott . . . wake up. . . ."

The voice was familiar . . . comforting. . . . A warm hand gripped his, giving it a gentle squeeze. Then the voice spoke softly in his ear.

"Come back to us."

Scott turned his head towards the sound of the welcome voice. "El . . ." He could feel his lips moving as he tried to speak, but even though his vocal cords vibrated, he was not sure if he was talking loud enough to be heard.

He managed to curl the tips of his fingers around the warm hand. And even though he could not open his eyes, he could feel his best friend's joy.

"You're going to be okay, Scott," Elliott declared, his emotions so strong he could barely speak. "I know it!" He reached up, brushing the bangs away from the closed eyes. "I know it! . . ."

Scott relaxed into the pillow he was laying on, a peaceful smile gracing his lips as the blanket of oblivion fell over him again. This time the nightmares would not come. Elliott would keep them away.
****
It was a relief to sleep without the interference of Eartha Brute and the endless, deadly water. His slumber was dreamless, filled only by a gentle darkness in his mind. Yet at the same time, there was a light. Elliott was with him. Now that he had seen his best friend there, he knew Elliott would never leave. He was safe and warm and loved.

"I've been lonely, I've been cheated,
I've been misunderstood . . ."

Another familiar voice, quietly singing their much-loved song, now penetrated the blank fog that had settled over his mind. How long had he been asleep this time? It felt like eons since he had heard Elliott speaking to him and had tried to respond. Now he lay there, listening, focusing as he fought for awareness.

Sean . . . it was Sean singing. . . .

"I've been washed up, I've been put down,
And told I'm no good . . ."

He could relate to that part like never before. That was exactly how he had felt when Eartha had gotten the better of him, mocking and taunting and torturing him. He had felt like such an incompetent, useless agent, a complete failure. . . .

But in spite of everything Eartha had tried to do to bring him down, he recognized a much different truth. His friends would always care about him. To them, he would never be a failure.

Elliott and Barry both joined in as well.

"But with you I belong,
'Cause you help me be strong . . ."

Scott forced his eyes open. The three of them were gathered around his bedside, keeping vigil with their song. Elliott was still holding onto Scott's hand, his eyes widening in joyous excitement to see the glassy blue-green eyes looking up at him. Scott smiled a triumphal greeting, whispering the last lines of the chorus.

"There's a change in my life,
Since you came along."

Elliott leaned down, hugging Scott close. "You're awake!" he exclaimed. "Scott, you're awake!"

Sean whooped. "We've missed you!" he said, grinning as Scott shakily reached up to return Elliott's embrace.

Barry nodded agreement. "Welcome back," he said with a smile, laying a hand on Scott's shoulder.

Scott looked up at them in awe. ". . . How . . . ?" he rasped. How am I alive? How are you here?

"Greg called all of us as soon as the medics came for you," Elliott said, pulling back to give Scott some space. "We all came the instant we could."

"El got out first," Sean said. "And he hasn't left your side! Me and Barry were only able to get here a few hours ago." He shook his head. "Assignments," he muttered.

"How are you feeling?" Elliott wanted to know, concern lacing his voice.

Scott shrugged. "Sore," he said. "Exhausted. . . ." His voice lowered. "I'm still trying to believe I'm really here. . . ."

"A lesser man wouldn't be," Elliott said with a shiver. "Scott, I don't know how you made it out of this one."

Scott rested his hand on Elliott's arm. "I thought I was a goner," he admitted. "But I heard you. . . ." He looked up at Elliott, then at Sean and Barry. "All of you. . . ."

"We were hoping you would," Sean said. "If anything could bring you around, we decided music could!"

Scott gave a weak smirk. "Earlier, I woke up just a little bit," he said then, sobering again. "El was talking to me . . . asking me to come back. . . ."

"And you did," Elliott said. "You'd been practically comatose before that. But when you stirred and recognized me, I knew you were going to be okay." He smiled.

Scott smiled too. "How long was I out?" he wondered. It felt like years.

"Too long," Barry said, shaking his head. "The doctors didn't have much hope."

Sean nodded, adding, "But we told them you'd pull through."

He smirked. "Just think, you conquered Angel Falls," he said. "Eartha must be scratching her thick head in confusion right now."

Scott gave a weak laugh, but it dissolved as the memory of his nightmares returned. So much water everywhere . . . with no escape. . . . The shoes pulling him down, down, to certain death while his arms remained bound at his sides. . . . How had he ever survived? By all sense of logic, he should be dead right now at the base of the falls. Only an unexplained miracle, an answer to his frantic, desperate plea, had saved him. He said a silent, sincere Thank You.

And it was only now that he realized his hair had been freshly washed and he was wearing a warm, dark robe. The medics must have cleaned him up before putting him here. He was grateful, but at the same time, the thought of having been around water without knowing it made him uneasy.

What he had been through would traumatize anyone---the feeling of utter helplessness, knowing he could not fight against the aqueous depths crashing over him . . . knowing that whether he accepted death or not, it was there to take him. . . . He was lucky to even be capable of talking with his friends. Some survivors would probably be catatonic or deliberately shutting their loved ones out, lost in their worlds of horror. But that was the last thing he wanted to do. He wanted to be with them, after having been so panic-stricken that he would die and leave them.

He turned his attention to the present. Right now his body was aching all over, but his arms were bothering him the most. After being tied to his sides for hours, they were sore and tingling. They were probably still not used to being free. His feet, by contrast, felt numb.

A prickling of fear stabbed into his heart. He . . . he still had his feet, didn't he? What if the only way to get rid of the cement shoes was to . . .

"A-Are the shoes . . . ?" he asked.

"Gone!" Sean declared with a grin. "No more cement slippers!"

Scott tried to raise up enough to look towards the end of the bed. Elliott smiled at him, seeming to sense at least some of his concerns.

"Everything's normal," he said. "But it might take a while to get back all the feeling." He pulled up the bottom of the quilt, revealing Scott's bare feet.

Scott breathed a sigh of relief. "I suddenly got worrying that maybe . . ." He shuddered as Elliott laid the warm covers over his feet again. ". . . I thought I'd be stuck in the shoes for good," he said. "Or that my feet would be . . . whether they were still attached to my legs or not!"

Elliott's eyes darkened. "I'll never forgive Eartha for what she did," he said. Unaware that he was speaking almost the exact words Scott had heard him say in one of his nightmares, Elliott bent down to hug his best friend close again. They all knew it would be a while before Scott could recover from this experience. And they would all be right here, ready to help him.

Scott clutched Elliott as best as he could, his sore, rope-burned arms trembling as he used them.

". . . Is she still running free?" he mumbled.

"ACME caught her," Sean said. "The clues you gave Greg helped us stay on her tail."

A weak smile passed over Scott's features. "At least that's something."

But then his eyes widened. ". . . Where is Greg?" he suddenly realized.

Elliott continued to embrace Scott as he pondered over what to say. Greg had sat up with him during the long hours of watching over Scott. During that time they had talked in all seriousness, which was something they only rarely did. And if Elliott had held any doubts that Greg had changed from what he once had been, those doubts had departed. Greg was sincere in his desire to be there for the friend he had previously ignored.

"He went to get something to eat," Elliott said. "He said he'd come back. . . ."

Scott swallowed hard. "I said something terrible to him," he said, his voice breaking at the memory of Greg's disbelieving and stricken expression. "I . . . I have to tell him I'm sorry. . . ."

"You did," Elliott said softly. "Greg told me you apologized immediately. But he also said that as far as he was concerned, you didn't need to at all. He put all the blame on himself for driving you to snap like that."

"I shouldn't have done it," Scott said, his voice fading with his exhaustion. "Not after things were resolved between us. . . ."

"He said that what he said was thoughtless," Elliott said, "and that it really would make it sound like he was slipping back into his old ways.

"But you shouldn't keep talking," he added in concern. "You need to rest."

Scott gave a weak nod. Elliott was right. But he still felt terrible about his words. He leaned back into the pillows, letting his eyes sink closed.

Sean and Barry exchanged a puzzled look. They had not been there at the time Greg and Elliott had talked, and Elliott had not thought it his place to tell them what Greg had said to him in private. But they would ask about it later. Scott should not hear or talk about anything upsetting to him right now.

"How is he?"

Greg's voice came from the doorway, filled with concern. Scott opened his eyes again, looking to his childhood friend.

"He's awake," Sean said. "And he's upset about something he said to you or something."

Greg stiffened, making his way to the bed. Scott was looking up at him, his blue-green eyes sorrowful. Up to a few minutes ago, Greg had wondered whether he would ever see Scott looking up at him again. But seeing Scott looking at him now twisted his heart.

"Scotty, it's okay," he said, bending down to hug the younger man. "It was my fault. It was always my fault. . . ."

Scott reached up to hug back, his arms still shaking. "You were here for me this time," he rasped. "You helped me. . . ."

"I just wish I could've done more." Greg pulled back. "You get better, okay, Scotty? That's all I want to see. And I . . . I'll be here if you need me."

Scott nodded. "I'm already getting better," he said. He managed a smile, looking to each friend in turn. "I have all of you."

"That's the spirit!" Sean said. "You're going to be just fine."

But Scott only half-heard. Now he was looking at Greg's hands in concern. "Greg . . ." He grabbed Greg's right wrist before the other man could pull away. "What happened to your hands?!" He stared at the sore, scraped, and callused skin. Greg dealt with paperwork and was usually in his office. He rarely did field work or hard manual labor. There was no logical explanation for how his hands had gotten like this.

Greg froze as Scott took hold of his wrist. "It's nothing," he said. "I was just moving some heavy stuff today." He smiled. "Don't worry about it, Scotty."

Scott sighed, slowly starting to let go of Greg. But then his grip tightened. "You . . ." he realized. "You got me out of that mess. . . ."

At last Greg nodded. ". . . It was before Elliott got here," he said. "I . . . well, I didn't know what else to do, so I found a pick and started whacking at the cement. I couldn't just leave you like that. . . ." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I wasn't able to get your shoes out, but I loosened things enough to pull your feet out of them."

Scott was stunned. He leaned back into the pillows, staring off at the opposite wall. Elliott laid a hand on his shoulder.

"I could . . . get you some new shoes or something," Greg said.

Scott started. "No," he said. "You don't need to do that." He turned, smiling at the uncomfortable Greg. "Thank you," he said in all sincerity. "So much."

Finally Greg smiled too.

Scott slipped back, closing his eyes as sleep came for him. The others were here, and here they would stay---loyal and true no matter what happened. And somehow, he was starting to become aware of what they had already known---in time, he would heal.

No one is a failure if he has friends.

I heard that somewhere, once. . . . And it's really true.

There's a change in my life, since you came along.