Silence takes many forms. It can be merely an absence of sound. The world, or perhaps just one's ears, holding its breath, waiting for sound to return and fill the void once more. It can be stuffed with tension, overflowing with anticipation or fear or eagerness.

Silence can be a weight that slams down on the ground, shaking it, and you, to the core.

Iain's announcement brought with it the latter. It was profound and it was crushing. Both Thomas and Bren felt the air had been squeezed from their lungs and no amount of inhalation could suck it back in. The weight on their chests was invisible, yet still very real. Insubstantially substantial.

Iain gave them a few seconds for the news to sink in. It was a secret he'd held back from his son for all of the boy's life. He could understand the looks on both the children's faces and was sure he'd be the same if their places were swapped. He did feel sorry for Thomas. It must be hard for the boy to discover his father not only gave him up for possible death, but was also the world renowned scientist that brought powers to the world that had been reserved only for movies and comics. His work was important, however. Vitally so. It was world changing, and his loyalty and priorities had to be in the right place, unfortunately for Thomas.

His solution had succeeded beyond his wildest dreams. A cure for his wife's cancer had come too late for her, but Iain could take comfort in the knowledge so many more had been given gifts none could have imagined.

He would make his son understand. He would show the boy all his father had accomplished. Thomas would be proud. Iain could at least have that from his son before handing him back over to the Spotters. He'd have to, of course. It was too dangerous not to, for so many reasons.

Iain counted down from ten to give the pair tie to assess the information he'd given them. It was all he could spare. He was too close to perfecting his second formula to spare any further time for such distractions.

"So, are you going to listen to me? Do as I ask?"

His tone was fairly light, but had a shadow that suggested the question was more of an instruction. Thomas and Bren had yet to speak, and their words were still tumbling around in their shocked minds. He had to take their silence as acquiescence. If he didn't get to his office, he wouldn't be able to keep an eye on the Spotters. Though he had known David, their leader, for many years – and could almost call him a friend – he knew the man had a task to carry out. Any personal relationships would be set aside, at least until that task was completed.

Thomas and Bren nodded. They followed Iain without a word and, when they entered his office, they stood against a wall next to each other.

Iain's office was more of a laboratory. Offices have a desk and computer. Perhaps a bookcase and table lamp. A coffee cup in dire need of bleach soak rather than just a perfunctory wipe or swill out. There was a desk, covered in paperwork and rough sketches of seemingly nothing in particular, and a computer and a table lamp, but there the similarities ended. One wall was a mass of moving images, projected by an unseen source, showing various locations in the city. The park Thomas had been captured in. His home. His school. The remains of Oscar's lair, with the bodies of the murdered children covering the floor like a bloody, misshapen mosaic.

There were streets and buildings and rooms that Thomas didn't recognise in the mix, but he didn't focus on them. He didn't even pause when the camera showing the fallen children changed viewpoint and settled on Alex, though he felt a distinct, and sharp, pang of guilt.

Instead, he was watching the movement of the Spotters. They were showing from three different directions and were making light work of scaling the cliff.

Elsewhere in the 'office', long benches were laden with rows of test tubes, scribbled notes, touch screen tablets, a long instrument neither Bren nor Thomas had seen before and myriad other items they equally couldn't identify. A thick, square column stood towards the far end, seemingly supporting the ceiling. It was adorned with notes and haphazardly placed photos, none of which were Thomas.

He swallowed, hoping it would prompt a flood of saliva into his mouth. It didn't. Still, it had returned his voice.

"Dad?"

Since he had been on the run, his voice and manner had taken on a much more confident quality. Now, speaking not only to his father, but also the man responsible for the way the world was at that moment, including The Spot and the Spotters, that confidence wavered.

Iain didn't respond. He was busy tapping away at the air in front of him. He stood before the wall of screens and, as his fingers moved, there were quick flashed of light beneath him. The holographic 'airboard', as he called it, was his own design and it meant he could interact with his computers and surveillance equipment from anywhere.  He only needed to set his hands in a particular way and the projectors that lined the upper corners of every room would record the necessary 'key' presses, creating the flashed responses as they went.

Thomas looked at Bren and she nodded. He tried again, his new self resurfacing, if only slightly.

"Dad."

Again, his father failed to acknowledge his son's attempts to get his attention. He was still typing and swiping in the air. He was focussed on one particular section of the wall of screens. On it, text was flowing rapidly upwards and, as it did so, robotic arms on one of the benches moved. Test tubes containing various coloured liquids – one distinctly the colour and viscosity of blood – were being mixed. Bunsen burners heated them. Containers bubbles and steamed and trembled with excitement at their unknown contents.

It was the laboratory of one of the many mad geniuses Thomas had seen on television. In such films or shows, the scientist often became so intent on proving their theories, they lost their grip on reality or morals. Multiple spoofs of the man before him had been worked into programmes, with varying levels of madness or meanness being applied, even long before he had created and caused the Outbreak.

Thomas' nervousness suddenly disappeared. His anger stamped it out and flushed the boy's cheeks as he took a decisive step forward.

"Iain! Womack! Whatever the fuck you're called!"

Iain's hands froze. He slowly turned to face his son, his brow furrowed and his eyes narrowing.

"What did you just say?" he demanded.

"You know what I said. And I'll say it again if you keep ignoring us! You were meant to be showing us something. Or telling us. Instead, you're tapping away at nothing and we're stood here feeling invisible. And I can't even do that!"

Iain relaxed. He knew his son was right, and he didn't have a reasonable come back to reprimand him with. His work had led him along a path different to that he'd wished for. He'd once wanted to be a better father. A better husband. His work, however, had become much more important than both, and his son and wife were the unfortunate casualties in a war no one cared to admit was being raged.

Except him.

He was eager to return to that work, and also had the imminent and unwelcome arrival of the Spotters to deal with. But first, these unwelcome visitors were first in the queue.

"Right. What do you want to know? Ask, but be quick."

Thomas had questions, but they were abruptly unformed. They'd been circling in his head, but had scattered at the opportunity to be heard. He opened his mouth, but wasn't sure how to start. Bren had no such reticence.

"How can you be Thomas's dad and Womack? That doesn't make sense. Why did you create all this? Can't you see what you've done to the world? To us? To your son?"

"Ah, the girl speaks. And who are you?" Iain asked with a humourless smile.

"Bren," she answered reluctantly. She'd offer him the minimal information, and withhold the most important titbit – the ever growing range of her powers. Unless she needed to demonstrate them...

"Bren? And how do you factor into this? What are you doing with my son?"

"The son you fed to the wolves? The son you turned your back on?"

"Yes," said Iain, his remorse at his actions tempered by the weight of what he was trying to accomplish. "That son."

Thomas ignored the comment. Witnessing his father's ignorance of him whilst lost in the screens, the state of the office, the blaze in his eyes that had nothing to do with being reunited with his offspring told him his presence was an inconvenience. His arrival, and the subsequent arrival of the Spotters, was a stumbling block in his day. His father was less concerned about his son's safety than he was about being interrupted.

Thomas wondered if he would just be handed over again.

"I'm his friend," said Bren, straightening to show she wasn't afraid of him.

She had no reason to be, of course. She had an arsenal of superpowers at her disposal.

"Friend?" Iain questioned.

"Yeah," Thomas said, almost growling. "My friend. Leave her alone."

Iain smiled. He cared little about who she was. Perhaps she could be useful. Another armful of blood would always be welcomed. An MRI or any dozen of the dozens more tests he could carry out would be invaluable. Test subjects were difficult to come by when you had to relocate to the arse end of nowhere.

"And what's your ability?"

"I..." Bren didn't know how to answer. She wasn't going to volunteer anything but had momentarily forgotten what she'd started off with.

Ah yes. Chameleon.

She opened her mouth.

"All of them," said Thomas.