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You're a gorgeous little cub
With spots on your soft fur
Your body snuggles close to mine
I can hear your rumbling purr
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Captain Scarlet has been having bad nights lately. I suppose anyone would, after finding out they were featured on Channel 4's 100 Greatest Scary Moments. There he was—Captain Scarlet, indestructible, heroic, strong—and yet now immortalised as a source of terror, frozen in time with that blank Mysteron gaze and that eerie, humming control. It wasn’t even the whole story they told. It was the moment they wanted you to remember. A frightening one. And if I’m honest, I can see how that would get under his skin, even all these years later.
I picture him lying awake, the shadows in his room playing tricks, echoes of old broadcast footage looping behind his eyelids. That strange Mysteron voice, that clipped narration, and the cutting edits from the Channel 4 documentary—I imagine they bring it all back. He’s not scared of what he was, or what he did. He’s scared of what he’s remembered as. And maybe, just maybe, there’s a small part of him that wonders if there’s still some of that blankness inside him. We all have our own late-night fears. He just happens to wear his in public.
When I can’t sleep, I think of him, sitting upright in bed, maybe rubbing his forehead or glancing at the clock. And I wonder: what would soothe a man like Captain Scarlet? Something soft. Something human. Something the Mysterons never understood. I imagine he swings his legs out from under the covers and shuffles to the kitchen, just like I do. There’s comfort in making something for yourself in the dark. He warms the milk carefully, stirs in the cocoa with a steady hand, and holds the mug close to his chest. The heat travels through his fingers like reassurance. That’s the first step—drink hot cocoa.
Then he’d return to his room, blanket across his shoulders, and reach for a book. Nothing too heavy. Maybe something he loved as a child, before Spectrum, before Mars. He reads quietly under a lamp, letting the words wrap around him like a softer kind of uniform. His muscles ease. His breathing slows. Step two—reading.
But still, the shadows linger. Not the threatening kind, just the sort that remind you you’re alone. That’s when I think he does something brave—he sings. Not for an audience, not for a mission. Just for himself. A lullaby, maybe one his mother sang to him back when he was still Paul. Maybe he sings it softly, barely above a whisper, the way I do when the night gets too loud. It helps. It always helps. That’s step three—singing a lullaby to yourself.
Finally, as he slides back under the covers, the warmth of the cocoa still in his belly, the words of the book tucked safely in his mind, and the last note of his lullaby trailing off into the dark, he picks up his headphones. He chooses an audiobook—something calm, gently narrated, maybe a classic or something with nature sounds in the background. The voice guides him, word by word, away from the static of the past. That’s step four—listening to an audiobook.
Captain Scarlet might be indestructible, but he still needs kindness. And so do I. The nights don’t always get easier, but with a little ritual, they get softer. For anyone else who's ever been haunted by how the world remembers them—or who just needs a way back to sleep—I hope you’ll try these steps. Captain Scarlet will be right there with you, drifting back to quiet.
