The building wasn't supposed to have come down until he was free and clear.

Leave it to stolen technology to let him down yet again.

On the up side, International Rescue was on the scene, or so the echoed yells of others trapped in the rubble claimed.

On the down side, the Hood was well and truly stuck.

It had to have been at least an hour he was wedged between gigantic chunks of concrete and twisted steel girders until he heard and felt the rumble of a great machine that could only have been the Mole.

He'd seen it in action so many times, knew so much about it and yet, so little. Dust, vibrations and there. There came the drill-bit front of it through the destruction he himself had caused.

He wondered who he would come face to face with down here in a place they never expected to find him. In a place he never expected to be.

Right now, he should be out there where Thunderbird 1 was parked, working to steal her secrets, to learn everything about the technology that made her what she was.

Instead? He, too, had become a victim.

He didn't see them at first, but knew there were at least two. He recognized one voice immediately, but couldn't quite identify the other. He waited, ignoring the pain shooting up his legs, slicing through his pelvis. Waited for his chance.

Then another tremor as a floor above collapsed. And the concrete slab at the small of his back moved, sliding forward until he roared out a cry of pain as it pierced his flesh, crushed a disc.

The cry brought help.

Help he didn't want, but desperately needed.

The sounds of machines cutting through what trapped him invaded the blinding white-out of pain he felt. He trembled as the pressure on his back eased, cursing himself for showing weakness, but at the same time caring little as long as he could still walk when they pulled him out.

Hands on his arms. Gentle force exerted to pull him out of the hole his body had made.

Laid flat on a stretcher, a hand closing around his wrist to feel for a pulse.

His eyes snapped open and met dark blue ones that widened in recognition. He turned his hand and grabbed the one belonging to this particular rescuer.

"I know you," the man's voice said, softly so it couldn't be overheard. The only man who knew the true face of the Hood.

"Yes. And I know you," he replied. "Scott Tracy."

With that, he tested his legs and found they moved. Struggled off the stretcher, sweat pouring down his neck as his injured back screamed in protest. He'd get himself fixed later. He couldn't stay here, no matter the cost to his physical being, or surely the Tracys would have him taken into custody.

"My God," Scott breathed, hand on his pistol. Drawing it. Pointing it at his chest.

To be saved by the very men you wished to destroy, was something he could not reconcile within his mind. And he couldn't overcome the debilitation, crushed disc spilling its insides out. Crushing nerves, forcing vertebrae together. Legs buckling beneath him, he crashed to the ground. Darkness was his only concern now.

When he came to, he felt the weight of someone's eyes on him. It was a struggle to surface through the haze of heavy medication, but he managed to slowly blink himself to full consciousness.

And to find that his dark-haired companion remained by his side here and now, as he had back at the site of the building collapse.

"Why didn't you just kill me, Scott Tracy?" he rasped, mouth and lips dry.

"Because I'm not you."

He could so easily look into Scott's eyes and force him to do his bidding. To remove the restraints he felt binding him to the bed. To dress him and lead him from the hospital prison ward. To get him somewhere far enough away that the Hood could make it to safety, could escape the law. Could escape International Rescue.

"They won't be able to hold me."

He knew they wouldn't. He always escaped, so easily. So quickly. There were things he could do that others could not. In fact, right now before Scott's very eyes he would be able to remove the shackles and leave with a simple thought.

But something had him rooted to the bed, kept him from using his power. Not the drugs, which weren't altogether incapacitating. Not even his back, which he was certain had been operated on. There was something in Scott's eyes that drew his attention.

Once he had held this eldest Tracy son in his clutches. The Hood had wanted to keep him forever, to ruin Jeff Tracy and his family by taking the heir away from them for good. By making Scott suffer for no better reason than that he existed. But International Rescue had outsmarted him, raided his home, taken back their son, their leader, their brother. Each and every subsequent attempt to expropriate what he wanted from them - their technology, their secrets, their money - thwarted.

And then as their gazes held, he knew what Scott's eyes harbored as surely as he and he alone knew his true name.

There was hatred burning there. Hatred for what Scott had personally gone through at the hands of the criminal mastermind. Hatred for what the Hood continued to try to do to Scott's brothers and father. But most of all, hatred directed inward, for saving this particular life at all.

The Hood couldn't help but smile as Scott turned and walked away. "Don't think because you saved my life, I will repay you by leaving your family alone," he said, voice gravelly, scraping along his abused throat.

Scott stopped in the doorway, spine ramrod straight, arms folded over his chest. He didn't bother to turn around, preferring instead to keep his back to the man who would continue to hunt them until his last breath was drawn.

When Scott said nothing, the Hood at last looked away. "Consider yourself warned, Scott Tracy."

This time, Scott did turn to look at him. His eyes had gone so dark they were nearly black, and his voice was low. "You're here in the hospital under arrest only because International Rescue doesn't break the law," he said, after checking that they were still alone. "But I'm not always acting as part of International Rescue."

The Hood's eyes snapped back to him just as Scott turned again to walk away. He hesitated, then said over his shoulder, "Consider yourself warned, Hood."

Scott disappeared out the door and down the hall, walking away when the Hood knew he wanted to do anything but. Enemy helping enemy. A handful of minutes of truce, when one would not raise a hand against the other.

It mattered little to the Hood what Scott's noble reasons were for sparing him. It meant only that Tracy and all his family were fools, putting what they considered right over what they should have known was best. It was this weakness, this compassion, this sense of duty that would be their downfall. He would see to it personally.

It took a simple thought and a blink of his eyes for the shackles to fall away. The Hood tore the IV line from his arm, steeled himself against the pain and the drugs, and within twenty minutes, was gone from that place.

Gone to safety, preparing to return home, his mind filled with images of Scott's face, his eyes. His barely-controlled fury. Of what it had cost him to save the Hood's life, rather than allow it to bleed away or to take it himself.

It was an emotion he knew he'd be able to use against Scott in the future.

The Hood's back would heal.

The war within Scott, would not.

And the day would come, when they would be face to face once more. No white flags. No one needing help. No International Rescue. No law.

The Hood would plan well. He would be prepared. And he would see Scott Tracy die.

That was the reward for compassion.