#thunderbirds fanfic

[pareidoliaonthemove]

Wounded in Action

It had been a carefully laid trap, but as an aeons old adage says: ‘no battle plan survives first contact with the enemy’.

That said enemy was the Chaos Crew – who were charitably considered to be a ‘blunt instrument’ even by the Hoods rapidly dwindling standards – meant that first contact was Fuse’s ‘Basher’ vehicle bursting through the wall.

Lady Penelope rather grudgingly awarded them points for knowing how to make an entrance – even though said entrance was a £700,000 hole in the wall that destroyed two Ming Vases – reproductions, of course, but of an age and quality that meant they were of cultural and monetary value in and of themselves.

From there chaos had spread. Kayo, Lady Penelope and Parker, playing Keep Away with a briefcase that supposedly held a rare and immensely valuable star sapphire – second only to the famous ‘Star of India’. Exactly the kind of thing a cash-strapped Hood seemed to be targeting of late.

As the situation continued without either side managing to gain the upper hand, Kayo summoned their backup – Scott, Virgil and Gordon, along with Captain Rigby and his hand-picked team of GDF fighters.

Slowly the defenders made headway against the Chaos Crew’s all out attack. Fuses’ explosive charges were being defused before they could detonate and Virgil’s shoulder-mounted laser had scored a direct hit on Fuse’s power suit, disabling his ‘Power Punches’. While Havoc’s decoy hologram emitters were systematically destroyed, and well placed beanbag rounds had put enough of her acrobatic landings off that she was now moving with a distinct limp.

The Chaos Crew had been in retreat towards the Basher for five minutes, when there was suddenly, shockingly, a canine scream of pain.

Everyone froze in place, and all eyes swung to where Fuse stood, balanced awkwardly on one foot, his face stricken as Sherbet cowered at his feet, his left front leg pulled up against his body, whimpering pitifully.

“Bertie!” Penelope rushed forward to rescue the dog, hugging him to her breast and retreating to where Virgil was already pulling out a medi-scanner.

Gordon and Parker advanced on Fuse, their body language and expressions telegraphing violent intent.

Fuse backed away. “I didn’ mean ta…” he protested, his eyes wide, his lower lip wobbling dangerously. “I wouln’…”

Rigby and the closest of the GDF fighters joined in the advance as Fuse backed towards the Basher. He jumped as he bumped it to it, and scurried inside, looking back out as Havoc jumped up onto its roof.

“I’m sorry.” It was almost a whimper, and Penelope went to respond but Havoc chose that instant to strike, one of her reinforced lines flashed out, and snagged the briefcase, tugging it out of Scott’s unresisting grip, and whipping it into Havoc’s hands.

Scott gave a wordless yell of shock, as Havoc saluted sardonically and jumped onto the running board before launching herself into the vehicle yelling, “Get moving!” at Fuse.

A moment’s hesitation and the engine of the Basher revved violently, before careening back towards its entrance hole, sending several people jumping for their lives before it.

Kayo and Rigby didn’t hesitate, running at full tilt after the departing vehicle; Kayo already summoning Thunderbird Shadow via her wrist controller, and Rigby barking rapidfire orders for GDF flyers and road blocks stationed discreetly around the area.

It was later that day when Colonel Casey, with Captain Rigby – newly showered and in a fresh uniform – in tow, paid a visit to Creighton-Ward Manor.

“Eyes front, Captain,” she ordered, trying to keep hide her amusement at her subordinate’s open mouthed gawking at the combination of ultra-chic and traditional furnishings. “You wouldn’t want to be mistaken as casing this house, believe me.”

Rigby flushed, embarrassed, as Parker snorted his disdain, and didn’t quite keep his muttered “HI’d like ta see ‘im try pull hoff a caper,” from being heard.

“Colonel Casey, h’and Captain Rigby, M’Lady,” Parker announced at the door to the sitting room, before hurrying off to the kitchen for a fresh pot of tea, newly brewed coffee and appropriate cake and biscuits for the visitors. It was all well and good for some to sit around all day, he reflected, but a good butler was never idle when there were guests in the house!

Lady Penelope was much calmer than when Rigby had seen her at the ersatz auction-house. She sat in the centre of the main sofa, Gordon Tracy sitting as close as he dared to her on the left, and Sherbert, his left forepaw so solidly wrapped it looked like he was wearing a boxing glove lay on a large squashy velvet cushion to her right, submitting to Virgil Tracy’s petting from where he stood reaching over from behind the lounge. Occasionally, as Virgil’s hand paused, Sherbert whimpered pathetically, prompting the pilot to keep moving.

Scott was standing by the large picture window, half-watching the scene outside as he nodded his acknowledgement of the newcomers.

“Colonel, Captain, please do come in. We’re expecting Kayo shortly.”

Colonel Casey nodded regally and took a seat on the low backed sofa opposite Lady Penelope, as Rigby continued to stand awkwardly at the side.

“Do sit down, Captain,” Penelope’s voice was amused. Rigby flushed again, and perched awkwardly on the far edge of the sofa.

“Kayo’s here.” Scott’s voice came a heartbeat before the distinctive whining roar of Thunderbird Shadow’s engines passed over head.

It was only a couple of minutes more before Kayo strode into the room, unaccompanied. “Parker’s just on the way,” she reported, taking a seat on the small upholstered ottoman close to the door. Penelope nodded, as Scott, apparently having been waiting for Kayo to arrive, moved into the room from the picture window. He sat down in time to gingerly accept a delicate-looking cup with steaming coffee from Parker.

Once everyone was suitably fed and watered, and with Parker standing ‘guard’ at the door, Penelope spoke. “Colonel Casey, was our little trap successful?”

“Signs are positive, Lady Penelope,” Casey replied. “It was disappointing that The Hood didn’t show up himself, but we were prepared for that possibility. Thanks to the tracker in the briefcase, we were able to follow the Chaos Crew to what appears to be one of the Hood’s centres of operation. Maybe even his main one for the London area. The Hood didn’t appear to be ‘in residence’, as it were; but every resource we deny him is another brick removed from the wall of secrecy he has erected around himself.”

Penelope nodded as Scott moved in. “And the Chaos Crew?”

“Likewise evaded capture, I’m afraid. But Fuse’s suit appears to be damaged, and Havoc injured, so that will, thankfully, slow down their rate of operation, maybe even stop them for a time.”

Kayo frowned. “That just means that they’ll have time to better plan their next attack,” she cautioned.

Casey nodded. “We are hoping we’ll have leads on what they’re planning on doing next,” she responded. “There was a computer system in place in the Hood’s hideout, I’ve got techs going over it now. Hopefully we’ll be able to tap into his files, see what he has planned in the future. Maybe even work out how to tap into his communications so we can monitor him remotely.”

Penelope nodded. “So all in all a successful operation,” she mused.

“I wouldn’t say an unqualified success,” the Colonel frowned. “I don’t like casualties during my operations. How is Sherbet, Lady Penelope?”

Penelope reached out to stroke the pug. “There are a couple of bones broken in his foot, but the vet is confident they will heal properly provided he leaves his bandages intact,” she said softly. “He’ll have to rest, of course. No public appearances for the forseeable future, which is a great pity. Wimbledon is on soon, and Bertie does so enjoy it.”

“Runs h’off every year h’and chases the balls, y’mean.” Rigby was starting to think Parker actually intended everyone to hear his muttered commentary.

Penelope shot him a look that from anyone else would be called ‘dirty’. “He is, of course, an honorary ballboy. But I’m afraid this year they will have to do without his services.”

“Of course,” Colonel Casey said gravely. “I know our original plan called for someone to feign injury if the Chaos Crew couldn’t manage to get the briefcase away, but I am most upset that an actual injury was sustained.”

Her demeanour hadn’t changed in the slightest, and Rigby couldn’t help but agree with Parker’s, “Whouldn’t ‘urt you ta h’act like hit, h’even hif it is for th’ mutt.”

The Colonel continued as if she hadn’t heard. “Unfortunately, there is no avenue for me to recommend Sherbet for recognition of his injury in the line of duty. Please accept this as a substitute. Captain?”

Rigby stood and presented Lady Penelope with the large gaudily wrapped basket he had been holding awkwardly.

“Thank you, Captain, Colonel. It is very kind of you.” She set the package down on the coffee table and began to unwrap it, pulling out each item and offering them to Sherbet for his inspection.

Rigby wasn’t much fussed on dogs, to be honest, but he knew Lady Penelope loved hers, and that Penelope was a good friend of Kayos, one whose opinion Kayo valued. He had hoped to win points with Kayo by offering a gift to the ‘sick’ dog. He’d been quickly trying to shop online while waiting for Colonel Casey to take his report, when she had appeared at his elbow, demanded an explanation for what he was doing, and nodded at her explanation before disappearing into her office.

A moment later his email pinged, and he found a list of recommended products, along with authorisation to charge expenses to the mission. As Rigby deleted his hastily cobbled together cart, and went of in search of the recommended products, he was soon grateful for the authorisation. In the end, the ‘gift box’ for Sherbet was almost two months of his wages. And all for a dog!

Once all the items had been removed from the box, and thoroughly sniffed by the pug, her Ladyship lifted the dog off it’s cushion. “And what do we say to Colonel Casey and Captain Rigby, Sherbet?”

The animal wiggled impatiently in her arms, and she set him down on the ground to trot limping over to the Colonel, he put his front paws up on her knees, and barked once, tail wagging madly. The Colonel lifted him up to her lap, Sherbet once again stood on his hind legs and the Colonel only just managed to turn her head in time to avoid a doggy ‘kiss’ direct on her lips. Sherbet barked again, and leapt off her lap, to trot across the sofa to Rigby. He received the same treatment, but wasn’t quick enough to avoid a ‘kiss’ on the lips.

To Rigby’s surprise, instead of opting to return to his cushion, Sherbet lay down on his lap, and nudged at his hand until he started stroking the animal down the back. Rigby looked up at Lady Penelope when the little animal promptly began to snore.

“Well, Captain, I can see Sherbet has correctly deduced who was truly responsible for his present,” Penelope said. “Although I am not quite certain of the paygrade for a captain of the GDF, I trust Sherbet’s favourite treats were not too much of a financial burden?”

Rigby flushed again. “As the Colonel said, Ma’am, it was a gift from the GDF. I can, uh, assure you I endured no financial burden.”

Penelope smiled benignly. “Then I am touched by the GDF’s consideration.”

Kayo spoke up, “And, of course, by yours. Don’t think we didn’t notice you didn’t deny that you were responsible for coming up with the idea.”

That prompted a general chorus of agreement from the room, and Rigby flushed again, both in embarrassment and pleasure. He was embarrassed now to remember how he had original dismissed International Rescue as a bunch of rich kids playing hero and getting in the way of the ‘real’ heroes.

He had been proven comprehensibly wrong and was now proud to work with them.

Even the dog.

Notes:

Well, this went on a winding roadtrip to nowhere. What started out as ‘Fuse steps on Sherbet – whoops’, ended up with Rigby being a soppy bugger. Did not see that one coming.

The standard disclaimers, I do not own Thunderbirds, either the Original Series, the Movies (both Supermarionation and Live Action), or the Thunderbirds Are Go Series. (Although I do own copies on DVD.)

I do not do this for money, but for my own (in)sanity and entertainment.

[m-calculus]

A Cozy Evening

Scott ran his fingers through the silky fur of the puppy sleeping with its head on his lap. He leant back, letting his body sink into the plush sofa.

Puppy sitting wasn’t his usual gig, but when one of his old Air Force buddies had put out the SOS looking for a sitter at the last minute due to a family emergency, International rescue was always ready to help.

Scott used his free hand to lift a pumpkin-shaped mug with warm hot chocolate to his lips, taking a large sip. He pulled the crochet blanket over his lap, as the fire crackled in the grate.

Sure there were messes to clean up, the puppy was not yet toilet trained, but he smiled as the puppy twitched in its sleep; no doubt dreaming about their game of tug-of-war earlier in the evening.

[melmac78]

Here’s chapter seven of the Lexington story. The picture on the left is from the main entrance, but shows a good picture of the flags discussed in this chapter. (If it looks familiar, this is the background that @lenle-g used as the backdrop for the amazing artwork based on this story, but you can get this on the flight deck too. The flag on the right is W and sourced online.)

The photos below include the bridge, which accesses the flag area, the flag bag and information about it, and a T-34C mentor which is at least painted like a Flying Tiger. This plane, however, would’ve trained pilots and not for battle. (This is a plane model I’ve flown in.)

Previous Chapter 6

••••••

About and hour and a half later, after treating patients in the wardroom and checking up on others, the Tracy brothers discussed options on what to do next.

Each brother started discussing means to contact other ships minus using Four.

This lead to a huge argument between Scott and Gordon, especially as the latter postulated he could use sonar to make his way to land.

Virgil tried to mitigate the argument via walkie-talkie.

John, who was sound asleep fighting off his illness, didn’t hear a peep.

The youngest, who was already feeling a headache and warm in his uniform, was fed up. Alan said he’d start searching the flight and bridge deck.

Miffed when neither brother was listening, he started on his course, stumbling slightly on the fairly smooth floor. Shaking his head he pinched his nose to stave off the uneasy feeling he had.

A few minutes later, the older two brothers realized he was gone.

Scott contacted the youngest, who explained what he planned to do.

The eldest confirmed the idea might work, and Scott and Gordon, along with Jacob, started working on ways to prevent more illness.

Little did they know a person had overheard as they treated a camper, and left before the duo did to keep eavesdropping on the Tracy brothers, particularly the aquanaut.

They had been told to let this run its course, and work on a way to explain any hospitalizations… or worse. After all - the product needed to be refined, and the less known how much of a disaster this test was, the better.

•••••••

Alan looked around the flight deck, and saw nothing but the blue water of the Atlantic Ocean.

"I've got to find some way to get an alert out to people we're here," he thought and looked at the one of the planes still blocked on the flight deck.

He looked at one painted like a Flying Tiger and placing a hand on it, sighed.

"I really wish we had some jet fuel - Scott could go and fly, but we don't know where…" he started then paused when his head again swum slightly, making him take a few fast breaths.

Alan didn't quite get why he felt like a fish out of water so to speak. It seemed simple climbs were a little bit more laborious, but his breathing now was clearly panic in his mind.

He took a deep breath and sighed. "OK, need to calm down… hyperventilating won't do John any good,” he said, ignoring the niggling feeling in his gut something was wrong.

The youngest then turned to go back up to the main bridge to get a better look of the area around the ship for possible means to signal help.

As he started he felt the wind blow again, making him shudder as though he had a sunburn and the air conditioning was on.

He rubbed his face tiredly and turned to his right where the T-34C was, sitting heavily on the stairs.

"I don't believe it Virgil … I'm frying in this outfit," he said to the vehicle, tapping his comm briefly. "You know, like one of those Astro Dogs at the Astros game we went to…"

The comm clicked off when he leaned toward the plane again and patted it, trying to get it to laugh.

When the plane naturally didn't say anything, he frowned at the painted on snarl. "Come on Virgil - don't snarl. That was supposed to be a joke," he said, playfully punching the plane.

He recoiled in pain from the punch, and had a moment of clarity he hit a plane.

Shaking his hand, he confirmed he hit the plane. “That isn't Virgil…I'm getting to be as bad as John did with those dummies..." he said, pausing and wincing as a wave of dizziness got him.

It was starting to make sense… and that uneasiness came at him stronger. Double with the recollection of the night before…

Alan realized to his horror he had it too. "And John also is… no, not me too. I need to get us help - and fast,” he said, shuddering in the wind. “But how..."

The astronaut braved a glance upward to the bridge, and saw the colorful flags in the air. They were doubling… or blurry… but they seemed to be important.

“The tour yesterday - Gordon said….”

His eyes widened in fevered delight as a plan formed in his head. It was risky with his health but it was a way to get help.

The youngest astronaut hit his sash. "Gordon, you're a genius," he said and started up the ladders to the bridge.

Gordon who was near the open bay near the fo’c’sle, frowned, confused at the comment.

He was thankful however there was one spot the baldric comms worked.

“How am I a genius Alan?" he said through the comm.

All he got was a cut off speaker, hit again when Alan bumped into a railing from vertigo and caught himself.

The aquanaut frowned. "Alan... you OK?" he inquired again, tapping his sash. This time he didn't hear a response.

The youngest astronaut however groaned from collision, but continued as though the others could hear.

"I'm going to set up a signal flag! There has to be a ship nearby - maybe even WASP - that could see it and get help," he said, pausing at the top of the bridge area when he felt a bit dark and unlevel.

He steadied himself. "If I can get there… take it slow Alan, don't pass out,” he said, half feeling his way to the door leading to the flag bag area.

Alan made it to the spot, a small lookout like area where the signal flags were and, tracing then rope with the flags, was able to free it from the tie-down.

He quickly lowered the flags, pausing only a moment when the world spun alarmingly. Alan rested his head against the wall, appreciating the coolness. "I could get used to this…" he started, and started to slide down a little.

A slight burst of friction heat woke him up and he straightened, tilting wildly. Fortunately the flag box was sturdy and wide enough Alan was able to catch himself and keep from flipping over the side to an unforgiving flight deck..

"Nope! I've got to stay awake - John, the others… I need help, and we can't get it … without the flag," he said as he removed the decorative flags until there was a bare rope.

The youngest Tracy then rummaged through the flags, searching for the "W" flag, and whooped faintly with joy when he found it.

Alan's hands were starting to shake as his body fought to keep him alert. He fumbled with the clips, and was thankful the design was the same no matter how he pinned it up.

He felt his vision again start to go again as he grew more ill, but he was going to raise that flag. It was their only chance.

Thanks to the growing darkness pulling at him, every hand pull felt like like he was trying to lift TB5 from underwater.

Still he was determined to get the flag raised, even if he became a human anchor again.

"A little more," he said, gritting his teeth, but finally, he felt the rope not move and secured it to the holder in a figure 8 formation.

Alan looked up and blearily saw the "W" flag waving clearly in the breeze.

"I did it," he sighed wearily, only to feel the world around him darken and waver once more.

He tried to fight it, tried to even hit his sash's comm, but his arms wouldn't comply. Alan realized this time he was going down.

So, he used those fleeting seconds of awareness to stumble toward the wall, rolling onto his back to help him through this part safely.

"I hope the guys …. can find me," he thought vaguely as he felt himself slide down, aided by the wall. He then fell sideways into the massive amounts of flags on the ground, cushioning the now oblivious teen's head.

•••••

Gordon tried his sash comm again. "Alan, will you please respond?" he said urgently.

"What's the trouble Gordon?" said Scott instead, who had arrived to where his aquanaut brother stood.

"I don't know. Alan said I was a genius, but when I asked what, he just disconnected the comm," said the aquanaut. "Seemed a bit odd for him to say that though. Kind of out there -"

"No kidding, just like that frying Astro Dog comment earli…" started Scott, who then frowned.

The younger man also frowned. "Frying?... He did sound a bit out of it," said Gordon, who then paled. "You don't suppose he's sick now?"

Virgil, who had been listening to both communications, pursed his lips. "It's possible. He's been around John the most, plus had to keep him from falling into a medical storage bay," he said.

"Starting to sound more than likely," said Gordon. "We need to find him, and fast before he tries to swan dive off into a storage bay.”

Scott immediately went into action. "Gordon, you take the captain's quarters tour,” he said. “I'll take the fo’c’sle."

Virgil heard a different squawk on the radio. “This is Virgil, go ahead Jacob,” he said.

“Virgil, do you or your brothers need my assistance?” Said the older man.

The medic looked at his other ill brother and sighed. “Can you keep an eye on John?” He queried. He knew the older man had wrenched his shoulder earlier catching a football playing college student when he collapsed, and couldn’t assist in a rescue.

“10-4 Virgil. Will be there in 5. There’s an extra radio for Scott on the front desk in the office.”

Virgil switched off the radio. “Did you get that?”

"FAB Virgil. You head to the flight deck when Jacob comes over,” said Scott as he and Gordon started their search. Each grew frustrated as their searches were not proving fruitful.

••••••••

A few minutes later, Virgil had reached the flight deck and started searching.

After searching bow to stern, he growled. "Come on bro, this is NOT the time to get lost," he said, hoping he did not succeed in doing a nosedive off the ship.

He looked up as though in prayer.

It was answered… just not the way he'd expected.

Virgil saw one flag now on the mast of the Lexington - and paused for thought.. "Scott, Gordon, do you know if they were going to change the colors today?" he said.

"I can't believe the 'oh so polite' Scouts managed to spell a curse word in the order they flew them," said Gordon with a chuckle on his radio.

Virgil narrowed his eyes. "Not the time Gordo - were they for sure?" he asked.

Hearing both men grunt in the negative, he nodded firmly. "I think I know where Alan may be. If I'm right, and he's down, I'll need your help to lower him."

"Lower him?" said Scott, concerned.

"No time to explain bro, just head to flight deck. I'll contact you as soon as I know," said Virgil as he rushed up the bridge ladders.

He hoped that Alan was where he suspected and didn't try to go another 50 feet up to higher parts of the ship with their grapples.

Virgil carefully made his way around the steering wheel and chairs to the exit where the signal flags were stored.

There, in a bundle of nautical flags, was Alan, unmoving.

"Alan!" he said and quickly kneeled by the youngest, checking his pulse.

Feeling the heat radiating off the younger man through his gloves, Virgil shuddered, then switched on the radio. "Scott, Gordon, Alan's in the bridge area,” he said and started checking teen’s vitals.

Scott, who was in the office, pursed his lips. "How is he Virg?" he inquired as he hurriedly left the office and headed toward his brothers.

Virgil gently lifted one of Alan's eyelids and checked the ill man's eye response. "Out cold and burning up," said the medic.

"Darn it," said Gordon on his radio, growing angrier. "Scott, we've got to use Four and seek help."

The eldest shook his head, and remembering the others couldn't see it, spoke up. "Belay that Gordon. Right now we need to get Alan to safety," he said.

“But…”

“Gordon, it’s too risky. We can’t have you drive off in Four and end up falling ill too,” he said.

"FAB," said Gordon, who turned off his radio and started to head up to the flight deck, and upon arrival, then turned to the bridge entrance.

He paused, shaking his head. The risk was great yes, but the reward greater, he mused, and decided to ignore the order.

With that, Gordon turned another route, toward the bow where Four was located.

"John has been out of it most of the morning and his fever keeps going back up despite our efforts to cool him down. And he’d be angry at Scott if we didn’t try to get help for the kids," said Gordon sternly to himself as he jogged to his beloved sub. "Now Alan is sick too, I'm going!"

Gordon climbed into Thunderbird Four and using the emergency thrusters pushed his craft off of the flight deck.

"AaaWeee!" Gordon cried as Thunderbird Four fell the few hundred feet into the waves below. Under other circumstances he would have thought it fun, even though his yellow sub landed on its top in the waves.

"Oof! Don't want to do that again," groaned the aquanaut as he rubbed a bruised shoulder where the harness hit him.

Gordon used the thrusters and soon righted his Thunderbird. The duo dove down deep, hoping to escape detection from his brothers.

Little did he know: he already had a stowaway - one who had already overheard his idea and was in a life pod inside, ready to give him help.

Just not the aid needed.

••••••••

Meanwhile, Scott had arrived to the flight deck and looked up to the bridge area. "Virgil, I'm here. Where are you?" he said through the radio. “What do you need?"

Virgil leaned over the railing briefly to show his location. "See if there's a stokes or something we can carry him in," he ordered.

"Do you need any rigging to get him down?"

"No, I’ve got my grapples and they’re designed to carry double my weight,” said Virgil. “The winds up here are a little stronger - but we’ll have to risk Alan colliding with something. Meet me on the hangar deck."

"FAB, I'll be back shortly," said Scott as he went to search for the items needed.

Virgil finished removing the last flag when the youngest murmured briefly and opening his eyes, blearily looked up. "Are you my guardian angel," Alan asked innocently.

"Not quite bro - I'm still alive for one," chuckled Virgil as he checked Alan's pulse. "Do you know where you are?"

Alan looked at the flag in Virgil's hand. "I think I've either lost a fight with MAX and the laundry again or I got that flag up and passed out," he said.

Virgil smiled. "No on the former - though I want to hear that story someday, but yes on the latter. Crazy move brother, but it just might work," he said, leaning forward to lift his brother. "Now, I'm sure you know the drill now right?"

Alan saw Virgil's body language and winced. "You're not going to carry me are you?" said Alan, whining like a three year old.

"Yeah - sorry Al, I'm going to have to in order to rappel down. There's nothing but ladders here and if you collapse again -" he said, and again checked the younger man's pulse and response.

"Not going to," said the younger, weakly brushing off the hand.

Frowning at his finding, Virgil continued honestly. "Sorry bro, but I'm afraid you will from what I'm seeing. Even if you don't, in your condition we don't need you falling down the stairs from a dizzy spell and get hurt worse."

"No I won't…" Alan murmured and tried to sit up. He sagged back against the wall, supported by Virgil. "O-K, FAB… you win…" he said tiredly.

"I'm glad to hear that. Now, let me do the work this time," chided Virgil as he gently pulled his brother into a standing position.

The move unfortunately was too much of a position change and Alan indeed once more blacked out, sagging into his brother's shoulder with a soft, barely heard moan.

Virgil held on to his brother as he felt the teen go limp. "Easy Alan, I've got you," the medic said in reassurance as he swiftly stabilized his brother and connected the two baldrics together to rappel.

Scott, who had been able to get a backboard to carry their brother, had seen some motion at the spot and frowned. "Virgil? What's wrong?" He half shouted in the radio.

Virgil chose to wait briefly as the feedback faded, then responded. "Alan passed out again."

"Panic attack?" asked Scott. He didn't blame Alan if he did have one at the thought of being rappelled down against his will, ill or not. At least they could carry him down the long frozen escalator.

"No, I think from orthostatic hypotension."

"FAB," said Scott, understanding now it was from a drop in his blood pressure standing an ill Alan up to connect the harnesses.

"I am heading to the fight deck," Virgil said as he carefully connected a rappel charge to a sturdy pipe.

Once assured of its security, he went down the “exit” route with his precious cargo. "Do you have everything ready?"

"FAB, and what I could find to cool him down," said Scott as he laid the items out on the hangar deck.

A few minutes later, Virgil landed on the flight deck, and after removing the harness link, lifted Alan into a fireman’s carry.

Virgil walked a few yards to where Scott was with with a gently moaning Alan. "He's been mumbling on the way down," said the medic as he carefully lowered their brother to the ground. "I think he'll be like John and wake up a little more when we cool him down."

Scott covered Alan with the cooling blanket and checked his pulse. "Why was he up there in the first place?" said the pilot.

"Probably to put that one flag up to get attention," Virgil said, pointing. "I think that one means 'quarantine' or 'medical help' if I've kept some of Gordon's ramblings in my head."

Scott gave an exasperated chuckle. "You're right Virgil - it is one. That crazy kid - no wonder he said Gordon a genius," he said. "Hopefully it'll get us some help - a local trawler, a cargo ship, WASP."

"I hope so too. In the meantime we need to get Alan to the berthing quarters and out of his uniform into something more comfortable," said Virgil.

They both knew like John's suit, it was designed to keep in warmth in a space environment. Alan's fever combined with the suit would cause further issues.

There was a soft groan from the deck, and the two eldest looked down. "Alan, can you hear me," said Virgil gently. "Just relax, we'll have you cooled down soon enough."

The youngest looked at Virgil with dizzy eyes. "Hate being an Astro Dog, Mr. Cheeseburger. Can you hold the anchovies?" muttered Alan before subsisting again.

Scott looked at the teen and gave a weak grin.

"FAB, Astro Dog," said Scott, looking at a slightly bemused Virgil. "Come on Mr. Cheeseburger... let's get Astro Dog here some nice cold ice water to cool him down."

"Definitely," said the medic as he and Scott picked up the stokes to take the youngest to the berth.

In their haste to get Alan cooled down, neither of the fully alert men noticed TB4 was not on the deck.

[scribbles97]

Listen

Whelp... after one hell of a haitus Scribbs is back writing for the Thunderbirds Are Go fandom again! It's been a while and what I've produced is only short, but it felt good to get back to my comfort characters again. Thank you @gumnut-logic for the hugs and support that you continue to give me <3

Virgil had known as soon as Gordon had sunk into the co-pilot seat on Two. 

A run of back-to-back rescues was the final nail in the coffin on a week that had seen them reach six out of eight continents, and more ocean than he dared to count. He wasn’t sure when he had last seen Scott, their paths crossing less frequently than normal with the financial year end meaning the board were demanding more of his older brother’s attention when he himself wasn’t out on a rescue. Grandma had caught them each time they had returned to the Island, hot food cooked by MAX readily available for them to wolf down as the ships refuelled. 

John had assured them as the retrieval mechanism had wound Four back into the module that there wasn’t anything else to demand their immediate attention. Their space-bound brother confident that they could all take a much needed break - world ending disasters notwithstanding. 

The way Gordon had paused as he had sat down and not immediately stretched his legs forwards as he always did on their way home was enough of a tell. 

Virgil had been piloting with the aquanaut at his side for years, and had known his brother for nearly two decades before that. They had seen the swimmer through rehabilitation after two life-altering accidents that had left him scarred and fragile - but not as broken as doctors would have anyone believe. 

Yet, he knew better than to comment. 

It wouldn’t be received well. 

Not when Gordon was still well enough to climb out of Four and make it back to the cock-pit of Two. There was clearly a niggle, something somewhere apparently sitting just not quite right, but that must have been all. 

Virgil hoped that a hot bath and some yoga once they got home would see his younger brother right. Gordon hated the bad days, the worst ones when his back locked up and the tension in the same muscles that provided much-needed support left him crippled. 

Virgil hated those days too. 

Hated that there was little any of them could do to help. 

It was the same reason Gordon was always so prickly when his back did decide to play up, knowing full well that painkillers and patience were the only real options when it came to riding out the ache. 

That he was quiet most of the ride home, save for the occasional sigh, simply served to assure Virgil he was right in his diagnosis. 

Gordon had two extremes when he was bothered by something - full throttle chatter, or deadly silence. Not that he’d ever admit it, and not that Virgil would call him out on it in the moment. 

Still, it was a big brother’s prerogative to at least ask. 

“You good?”

Gordon’s sigh was heavy next to him, answer enough in itself.

“Ready to be home.” 

Which was code for tired. 

Which was code for hurting. 

Because, for all Gordon was prickly when it came to his back, he wasn’t stupid. He was perhaps the most aware of them all as to how close he had come and how far he had to drag himself back. The rest of them had merely been spectating supporters, very much aware of the problem and its implications, but with no real idea of what it was like. 

None of them had a spine that was a third artificial. 

Gordon knew his limits - even if he did sometimes push them too far - and knew when to ask for help. An athlete at heart, he knew when to listen to his body and how to look after himself. He knew when enough was enough, and what was needed to reset himself to best function. 

He knew when to ask for help. 

Scott would have heard the coded response and immediately had any of them down to the med-bay. Big brother, ever protective over his brood, would have needed a full explanation and a med-scan before he had been convinced that it was just an ache that their little fish had been feeling. 

He meant well, but sometimes their oldest brother was blinkered by his need to keep younger brothers safe and well. Not that Virgil blamed him, Gordon had given them all enough grey hairs to warrant wrapping him in cotton wool for the rest of his life. 

Virgil knew he himself could be guilty of just the same, but he’d been working on it over the years. He’d taken the time to figure out the more subtle signs and listened to what Gordon was really telling him. 

Ready to be home, was an answer. 

It wasn’t stubborn silence - I’m hurt but I don’t want you to find out. 

It wasn’t inane chatter - I’m really hurt and you’re going to take me to hospital whether I like it or not. 

And it wasn’t an outright admission - I’m hurt but I already patched myself up so it’s fine. 

“Want a heat pack?” He offered, glancing across to gauge how well the question would be taken. 

Gordon’s grimace said enough, “I’ll get it - probably best to keep moving.” 

Virgil simply nodded, returning focus to keeping the flight of his ship as smooth as possible. They’d get home eventually, little brother would get his bath, some painkillers, and with any luck a few days off of rescues to recover fully. 

Whilst he did, Virgil would do what he did best, and listen.

[idontknowreallywhy]

Tried but failed to reach a conclusion on what I’m loosely calling the paint mystery but the majority of the chapters have deviated so wildly from any kind of plot that I may have to rethink whether it’s a story or just a collection of scenes.

Unrefined, unedited previous bits for reference:

Bit the first

Bit the second

Bit the third

The interlude after the third where I lost control of the characters and everyone went a bit nuts

Now, Bit the fourth which was supposed to be the end but that still eludes me… ALL the thanks to @astranite @womble1 and @sofasurf for the beta reading and suggestions and encouragement and to the Thunderfam generally for being a friendly safe community to practice a new thing within.

Light

A rush of harmonics drowned out Two’s steady hum as her sister raced up beneath her and barrel-rolled overhead before shooting off into the Californian twilight. Virgil watched as her vapour trail angled up, up, up and over backwards before taking a steep dive and spiralling back towards where he and Gordon watched in various shades of amusement and baffled awe.

“How is he still conscious?” Gordon murmured. “I’d be either sick… or dead. Ugh… nope, definitely dead.”

Virgil watched as his elder brother steered the rocket plane into the vertical zigzag he recognised as the signature move of the ‘Vomit Comet’ Scott had piloted for the trainee astronauts during his 6 month NASA secondment from the Air Force.

“He doesn’t have a… normal relationship with G force, Fish, you know that.”

As if to prove the point, One screamed past them, spinning, and doubled back to overtake at a distance which set Two’s proximity sensors blaring.

Again.

Virgil cringed and covered his ears.

John’s wry smile materialised in front of them. 

“Aunt Val is going to be inundated with emails from the alien spotters again isn’t she?”

Virgil snorted. Then sighed.

“Should we… you know, rein our dear flyboy in a little?”

There was a delighted snicker in the background as John coughed uncomfortably.

“He couldn’t doooo it” came the familiar singsong voice of Virgil’s digital niece. John, who now appeared to be heavily focused on brushing non-existent dust from his baldric, frowned slightly.

“I did open a comm with him, yes.”

“And?”

“He was… whooping, Virgil.”

It was Gordon’s turn to snort. He looked up from his tablet where he’d already accessed the usual conspiracy theory websites to check for new flying saucer sightings over Arizona.

“What, Scott? Pfft, seems unlikely”

John raised an eyebrow and patched in the audio from One’s cockpit.

Virgil’s breath caught in his throat as he was accosted by a sound he hadn’t heard since his brother was a teenager. Warm, hearty, unfettered laughter punctuated by… yes, that could only be described as a whoop… and then an elated giggle. 

Virgil was aware that to most people sound didn’t have colour but it was second nature to him. Scott’s usual speaking voice was a familiar steely blue, rich and dependable. It could deepen to almost navy if he was angered or concerned, or gain highlights of cerulean when he was amused or speaking affectionately. Now it was as if an arc of blazing summer sky was overlaid on the late evening clouds ahead of them, marred only by the static effect of the comm. Virgil was overwhelmed by a sudden longing to hear his brother laughing properly, truly, untainted by digital interference and simultaneously afraid the opportunity to do so would never arise.

Nobody moved, not waiting to break the spell. Then One did it for them, as her pilot pushed her into yet another feat of aerobatic madness and her own burning white squeals of delight muffled those of the man at the controls.

John muted the feed. Virgil releases the breath he was holding and swallowed, glancing at Gordon whose jaw had almost parted company with his face, his tablet hanging from a limp hand, his mission of winding up the ufologists forgotten. 

It was sobering to realise how infrequently a website tracking the rare and precious phenomena of happy-carefree-Scott would be updated. He met John’s eye and inclined his head. He couldn’t intervene either. Drop kicking a puppy would be less morally questionable.

“How’s his fuel?”

John’s gaze shifted upwards as a graceful sweep of his left hand obviously brought up some kind of display and a swift flick of the right closed something else down. Virgil was momentarily distracted by the image of his elegant brother conducting a symphony orchestra from space, his attention snapping back as he noticed the slight furrow in John’s brow.

“Low, I take it?”

“At this rate he’ll drop into F tank in about 10 minutes. Which will get him home if he flies in a straight line…”

“If.”

“Yeah.”

“What’s F tank when it’s at home?” Gordon had abandoned his tablet and was observing his elder brothers’ with overt curiosity.

John rolled his eyes. Virgil bit his lip and radiated guilt. Scott had never been told about that particular upgrade to his ship and it always made him uneasy to keep such a secret but the secrecy was necessary for it to work as intended.

“Gordon you have to swear to keep this to yourself… but you remember all those times when the paragon of caution that is our big brother has reassured us his fuel supply was “Fine” when One was actually running on fumes?” 

More like the distant memory of fumes in some cases. His little brother of course knew all too well because he’d flown enough missions himself to take fuel to whatever godforsaken location Scott had stranded himself in.

“Well… Brains and I installed a little extra tank about which the fuel gauge is ignorant and so is One’s primary pilot.”

Gordon appeared to ponder this for a minute.

“Won’t that just make him believe he really can fly on fumes?”

“Precisely what I said” John threw a hand in the air. “I had suggested a flow rate limiter instead, so she can’t do more than Mach 6 once the gauge gets below a certain level”

“But that’s slower than the Big Green Mom Bag!”

“Oi!” the Mom Bag’s pilot objected “But, yes. Can you imagine what his reaction would have been if…” Another screech of scram jets announced One’s return from who knew where and she decelerated with a shudder to match Thunderbird Two’s more sedate pace, flying above and just a nose ahead with her pilot looking down at them and flipping a cheeky salute. Virgil nudged the comms open again:

“Having fun, you big show-off?”

Scott’s hologram appeared, all shark-like grin and wildly dilated pupils. Virgil found himself leaning back into his chair, slightly intimidated by the intensity of his sibling’s manic expression.

“Well?! What are you going to PLAY?!”

Three younger brothers performed a perfectly synchronised double-take.

“P-play?”

“The concert, short stuff! What are you going to play in the concert? You should play that one that that goes ba-da-da-da da da ba-da-da-da da da da dum…” and then One was spiralling off again in a roar of jet engines, her pilot’s hologram blurring into incomprehensibility from the vibrations and leaving his younger brother blinking in confusion.

He shut off the comm before it gave them all a headache. At some point prior to the spontaneous post-tornado-rescue singalong in the school hall, their old teacher Ms Knighton had accosted Virgil and persuaded him to be the guest soloist at a benefit concert she was already planning to fundraise for disaster relief in their hometown. ‘Persuaded’ wasn’t quite the right word. He wasn’t aware that he’d actually been given any kind of an option. The woman was a tidal wave of organisation and he’d been well and truly swept along.

He wasn’t sure how he felt about it anyway. He’d not played in front of anybody but family since their Mom had passed and he hadn’t planned to either, for all that the idea gave him a tiny flutter of anticipation. He’d been meaning to send an apology citing work commitments later that week.

THIS was what had got Scott so excited?

He squirmed guiltily as he’d begun to theorise that his renowned flirt of a brother had encountered an old flame during the course of the evening and that was what had caused the adrenaline spike. But, it seemed Scott wasn’t celebrating for himself at all. This vanishingly rare level of joy from his big brother, was on HIS behalf?

He suddenly pictured Scott sat in the front row of every little school performance, even the ones Mom couldn’t get to. He’d always put the constantly jiggling denim-clad legs down to frustration at having to sit still and listen rather than climb and run but then… maybe that wasn’t it at all?

There was the gift of the electronic piano… and that time his brother flew back from college to talk round his father who’d objected to Virgil’s nervous suggestion that maybe he could do joint honours music alongside his engineering degree. Granted, when he realised IR on the horizon, Virgil had changed his mind and decided to keep music just as a hobby but thanks to his brother, it had been HIS decision to make. 

Now he thought about it, he couldn’t think of a single occasion when he’d sat and played the lounge piano where Scott wasn’t either at dad’s desk, on the sofa, or leaning against the body of the instrument chatting or just watching with a fond smile.

Scott had been his cheerleader at every step.

“Earth to Viiiirg!” Gordon leaned over and poked him in the side of the head. “So what are you going to play then?” Virgil smiled awkwardly and rubbed away the sudden excess of water in his eyes.

“Guess I’d better figure out what “ba-da-da-da da da” is.”

[eos-in-orbit]

hi all, feeling nostalgic. Please recommend me your favourite TAG fanfics

[willow-salix]

It's Saturday and you know what that means!

You can read the new chapter here but here's a snippet to draw you in.

The candle flame grew higher, then dipped to the side, bending like a fat snake, first left, then right. 

“See, just like that,” Selene said, her eyes focused on the flame as she commanded it to shrink. The flame lowered, almost spluttering out until she told it to relax. At her words it grew again, settling into a regular-sized flame, burning merrily.

“How the hell did you do that?” Kayo asked, her eyes widening.

“Controlling the elements is the most basic and natural part of anyone's giftset,” Selene explained. “It’s inside us all, in our DNA, a part of our makeup. Anyone can do it with practice, it’s just a question of focusing your mind and understanding what to do.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Have you ever tried?” Selene asked reasonably.

“No,” Kayo scoffed. “Who would? People don’t just go around playing with fire.”

[hebuiltfive]

The Alaskan Train Crash: International Rescue, We Have A Situation.

Six months after the return of Jeff Tracy and International Rescue has finally come back off their hiatus. One of their first missions with their dad back at the helm? A mysterious train wreck in remote Alaska.

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Additional Tags: Artist!Virgil, Post season three, slight AU, Mentions of hospitals, Mentions of Blood, description of train crash, Light Angst

Series: Part 1 of The Long Game

NOTES: This has been MONTHS in the making and, I won't lie, I'm a little nervous about finally putting this out in the world. This is only the first chapter of the first part of (what I'm now thinking will be) quite a large story. Disclaimers to say that I obviously do not own any of the characters in this story. They were created by the wonderful Gerry and Sylvia Anderson. The only things I do own are the ideas and situations they end up in. Trust me, they'll end up in some sticky situations in the near future!

Read it below or on AO3 here.

The Hood’s haphazard approach to his criminal scheming, coupled with a blatant disregard for any life that wasn’t his own, only ever led to one outcome — disaster.

The unfortunate beneficiaries of today’s outcome were currently trapped under the wreckage of the buckled front carriage of a derailed freight train. The scene was horrific to look at, even with all of Scott’s years of experience and training that came with being in the rescue business. The whole of the train looked as though it had been flung from the tracks, and had flipped onto its side, except for the back carriage, which had somehow managed to stay the right way up, and the front carriage, which had been capsized completely. In stark contrast to the crisp white snow underneath the wreck, there was a dark patch of leaking oil developing. As Scott hovered in the air over the derailed train, guiding his jet pack over the wreckage to get a sense of the scope, he knew he had to work fast.

There had been three workers on board. Whilst two of the three had seemingly been rendered unconscious by the incident, one was still very much awake and aware of her current predicament. She had made sure that the receiver of her distress call also knew this. John had forewarned his older brother of the severity of this woman’s pleas for assistance whilst Scott had flown Thunderbird One to the danger zone at top speed; the way the woman had begged Thunderbird Five for help had sent shivers down (a normally stoic) John’s spine. Still, despite the advanced warning, nothing could have quite prepared Scott for the look of pure terror on that woman’s face as he landed himself beside the wreck and jogged over to that capsized front carriage.

Two Hours Earlier.

Virgil had just wanted the lounge to himself so he could finally finish his oil painting in relative peace. It had already taken him far longer than he’d expected to get the painting complete. Usually that was due to rescue missions interrupting him and not his two younger brothers, as was the case today. Gordon and Alan had come bounding into the lounge, as loud and as energetic as always, and then began to play the loudest alien-killing game they could have possibly found. Virgil knew that his easel and pallet in front of him had not gone unnoticed by the Terrible Two, but the boys didn’t seem to care. Or, rather, they didn’t seem to realise the disturbance they’d caused. That was normally the case, anyway.

Virgil should have known that asking for any semblance of peace in the Tracy household was very rarely answered. The villa was always a hive of chaotic activity, even when those rescue missions called half of the family away. As Virgil was usually on call in those situations, he rarely managed to find a moment’s grace unless he was up into the late hours of the day. As it was, the sun had already begun to set over Tracy Island and sleep would soon be beckoning to all of them. He only had a few hours left to get some painting done before Scott had another reason to berate him for staying up late again. Thankfully, Tracy Island was large enough to not only house International Rescue’s operations, but also cater enough room for everyone who lived there.

He had not long retreated from the lounge, away from Alan and Gordon’s loud but seemingly futile efforts to defeat an invading alien race, to finish up his work in his art studio.  He should have just stayed there this morning and not gone down to the lounge, but when that room was not occupied by bored, young adolescents, the lounge was just as serene as the quiet his studio offered. The views out onto the expanse of the Pacific inspired Virgil’s creative muse, and the colours seemed to flow so much better on his canvas when the warm, tropical breeze blew up through the open veranda. That being said, the picturesque scenery that now filled his peripheral was just as humbling.

His canvas, he’d carefully carried down from the lounge, had been placed on a new easel that stood in front of a large window. In the near distance Mateo stood, the rocks on the island glinting in the last rays of sun. Far more quieter than the disruption his brothers were currently causing upstairs. Content once more, Virgil started to mix the paints he needed on a new pallet.

He got all of two swipes of raw sienna onto the canvas when there was a gentle knock of knuckles against the wood of the art studio door.

“Virgil?” It was a voice that Virgil had thought he’d never hear again, up until a few months the back, that is. A voice that he was still trying to get used to hearing again after living so long without it.

Jeff Tracy had opened the door and was standing under the frame, his hands sitting idly in the pockets of his jeans. He looked over the artwork his second eldest was working on. To a stranger, or casual observer, they might have been deceived by the seemingly dark piece. With the shades Virgil had decided to use so far, that would have been an understandable mistake. But Jeff knew his sons, even after eight years of being separated from them, and he could see the hope that radiated through the painting. In the background, still only an outline and yet unfinished, he could make out the shape that he guessed would become Thunderbird Two. Jeff could see Virgil’s behemoth of a ship was to rise in the distance, to assist in the abstract disaster that was happening in the foreground. The smile that lit up his worn face gave Virgil a warm glow inside. “Looking good, son.”

In those first few weeks of Jeff Tracy’s return to earth after spending almost a decade lost in the outer reaches of the solar system, International Rescue had gone on an understandable hiatus. The Global Defence Force had offered to pick up the rescue work whilst the family became reacquainted and new routines were established. After all, just having their father sitting with them at their breakfast table in the morning again gave the boys enough of a shock. Despite the stresses and occasional disagreements that naturally came with the reshuffling and reorganising of the organisation, having their dad back was one of the greatest miracles to happen to the Tracy brothers, and they all thanked their lucky stars every day for having him home again.

“Do you have a moment?” Jeff asked, gesturing forward as a way of asking whether Virgil was okay with him stepping into his space.

By the look on his dad’s face, Virgil knew that ‘a moment’ was more than likely going to last longer than Jeff had suggested in his wording, but Virgil nodded all the same. As Jeff stepped inside and closed the door behind him, Virgil placed his pallet and paint brush on the side table beside his easel. He rubbed his paint splattered fingers on his equally paint splattered apron.

“Sure. Is everything okay?”

Virgil was used to being the one everyone came to for advice and assistance in the family. Along with Grandma Tracy, he was the soundboard that his brothers, and Kayo and Brains, relied on when they needed a solid voice of reason. Virgil never minded. He never saw any of them as a burden or a bother. Whenever they needed to seek comfort in Virgil’s warmth and way with words, Virgil was there for them.

“I wanted to just let you know that Grandma will be taking me to the mainland tomorrow.”

Virgil’s heart sank a little at Jeff’s words. He knew what his father’s words were code for, knew exactly where Grandma Tracy was taking him: the hospital. Jeff’s health had been fragile upon his return to Earth. Having had to survive eight years on a rock in the Oort Cloud, it came as no surprise to any of them. They were all wise to the fact that the situation would have been a detriment to anyone’s health, and they all were sure that, had Jeff been anyone else, he wouldn’t have lived through the ordeal for nearly as long as he miraculously had. Jeff’s health had been a major talking point in the reorganisation of International Rescue. The main question was whether he was fit enough to take back the mantel of Commander In Chief, or whether it was better for him to take a backseat and oversee operations from the sidelines instead. Both Grandma and Scott had been firm advocates in Jeff taking the back seat, but Jeff Tracy was Jeff Tracy and he wasn’t the kind of man who was content with being sidelined. In the end, they had all agreed on him sharing the job with his eldest son, at least until he was in a better condition.

Hence the hospital visits. Scans, blood work, physiotherapy, drugs and tests were part of their new normal, and they’d been advised that this new normal was going to stay in place for the foreseeable future. Jeff didn’t mind, so long as it meant he was still able to be of assistance, but the constant hospital trips had the boys naturally worrying.

“If dad is so unwell that he needs to be constantly visiting Doctor Mayhew every month, he shouldn’t be placed in a position that could cause him stress!” Scott had exclaimed on more than one occasion. Jeff never listened to him, always claimed that he was fine which only led to heated debates between the two. Usually it was Grandma who managed to calm them both down, but once or twice, the unfortunate role of mediator had landed on Virgil’s lap. Whilst he still didn’t see it as a burden, it was the only time he minded. It was the one time he didn’t like being a soundboard to his family.

“How long this time?” He asked his father, arms folding across his chest.

“A week. Maybe two. They want to check my legs, I think. It’s going to require a few tests back to back and they say that it’s easier if I just stay there whilst they get the results.”

Virgil nodded. It made sense for him to remain in one place. His next question was one he didn’t want the answer to. “Does Scott know?”

Jeff held silence for a moment or two, and Virgil knew the answer instantaneously. “No. He doesn’t. Not yet.”

Virgil pursed his lips, nodded once… twice, and then began to undo his paint apron. So much for a relaxing evening with his canvas. “He needs to know, dad.”

“He overthinks everything—”

“That’s Scott for you—”

“— and I don’t like how stressed out he gets. I don’t want to add to it, or be the cause of more stress.”

Welcome to the club, Virgil thought, but sighed as he threw the apron aside. Scott never knew how to take things easy. He was a classic overreacher, constantly trying to do more than his best. That perfectionism had only got worse in the months following their father’s disappearance, but that was a fact Jeff had still not been informed about. Their father had developed a legacy in people’s minds, one that only grew in his supposed death, and Scott felt compelled to continue that legacy. He had always looked up to Jeff, but this constant need to try and make their father proud, even in death, sometimes meant Scott took unnecessarily hazardous risks, and it had nearly landed him on death’s doorstep on more than one occasion. Virgil and the others had often tried to slow him down and make him see reason, but their talks rarely seemed to have a lasting impact. Come the next day, Scott would be back to his normal, overreaching self.

“Scott’s capable of handling a lot more than you think, dad.”

Jeff breathed out a long sigh. “I don’t want him to handle so much. He should share the burdens.”

“Good luck getting him to do that. We’ve been trying for years, but Scott is way too protective. It’s one of the reasons why he doesn’t want you being so involved in the rescues right now, what with your… health.”

“I know he’s looking out for me,” Jeff began, his eyes averting Virgil’s own gaze as he took in the view of Mateo from the window. “I just wish he wouldn’t try so damned hard all the time.”

Virgil let out a deep chuckle. “You and me both, dad.” Then, he began to make for the door. “But he needs to know all the same. If you want, I can be your bodyguard.” He joked. In honesty, the thought of having to referee another match between his dad and Scott worried him, but he’d do it if it meant avoiding a bigger conflict in the future.

Jeff’s lips quirked into a smile at Virgil’s humour, but as he opened his mouth to speak, a hologram of John appeared from the holo-disc on the side table beside the easel. “Guys, we have a situation.”

Exchanging worried glances with his father, Virgil dove out of the door of his studio and made his way up to the lounge as fast as possible, Jeff following quickly behind him.

[vegetacide]

Whumper-roo ahead

Been on a re-read kick as of late and came across this gem again. Mental health reminder that it's important to look after yourself.

An oldie but a goodie by @gumnut-logic

💚💚💚💚

[loopstagirl]

Gordon barely heard Virgil's cry of alarm as the wave crashed over John, instinct taking over and causing the – usual – prankster to sprint across the sand, only one thought lodged in his mind: getting to John. He must have looked a picture to his brothers, weaving slightly as he worked with the waves. He knew that whilst going in a straight line would seem like the most direct route to reach his brother, the constant movement of the water would have slowed him down. Instead, Gordon found himself moving with the water, making his route slightly diagonal, but knowing that it was what was needed in order to get to John. He was vaguely aware of Scott speeding along after him, putting the redhead's very thoughts into practice as he tried to force his way through the waves.

After what felt like an age, Gordon knew that he was getting closer to John, and felt his legs give another burst of energy, pushing him to a greater speed than before. Within a few seconds, he threw himself down onto his knees next to where John was struggling to sit back up again. Reaching down, he sharply caught his brother around the chest, pulling the blond from the waves and clearing his head of the sea once and for all. As John coughed harshly, trying to expel the salt water that he had accidentally swallowed, Gordon slipped around the other side of the older man, letting John lean his weight back as he continued to cough. Rubbing his hand soothingly up and down in between John's shoulder blades, Gordon found that he was murmuring in a soft voice, encouraging his brother to clear his lungs. He hadn't even considered what he was doing, instead just letting the rescuer in him instinctively take over.

Just as John finally gained control of his slightly erratic breathing, shakily pushing himself into a more upright position whilst eyeing the still oncoming water with something that could resemble trepidation, Scott arrived. Refusing to meet Gordon's warning look, he regarded his immediate younger brother in concern for a long second. Finally satisfied that John was indeed alright, if a bit wet, the worry gave way to anger.

Ao3 ->

[quasar-concept]

Notice (Thunderpride Bingo Fic)

Coming Out + Trans Woman Gordon for @thunder-pride Rating: T Warnings: gender dysphoria (moderate), anxiety (mild), accidental misgendering (very mild)

Read on Ao3!

There had, of course, been clues. Gordon just hadn’t realised they were there, didn’t know to look for them, until much later. It was strange, the way the tingle of discomfort when Gordon walked past the mirror outside the changing room, was disguised by the thrill that came with high-paced training. 

Gordon sighed, softly and rhythmically pulling on the front of her hair. 

Every time Gordon got into the pool, the rush of water over her ears, the tug at her feet as she powered through layers of cold water, everything melded together. It was afterwards, when the adrenaline and the wrongness mixed together that made Gordon feel like she was made of TV static. 

She was lucky, she supposed, that her discomfort had been so easily mistaken for nerves, as she climbed the hyper-competitive ranks of swimming. 

Still. Maybe it would have been easier, if she wasn’t pushing thirty when she realised she was trans, if she hadn’t been on the tail end of a rescue, staring at her muddied hair in the back of Thunderbird 2, longer than it had ever been before. 

They were on mandatory downtime after several long, hard, back-to-back rescues, rounding out a long and hard month. The piano was alive with Virgil’s playing, a calm background to the wild conversation between Scott and Alan, the noises floating up and into Gordon’s room. Gordon assumed John was somewhere, sleeping off the rest of his gravity hangover. 

Gordon tugged at the loose shirt hanging over her shoulders, white singlet clinging to her waist. The quieter month that had preceded the most recent had been good. She’d had time to research, time to process. Then they had been hit with rescue after rescue, and there hadn’t been a good time for Gordon to pull any of her brothers aside, let alone all of them. So she’d not really been putting off coming out. They’d just all been busy.

Now, though, Gordon had that tight feeling in her chest again, that she couldn’t keep going without letting someone, anyone, know. 

There was a soft knock at her door, and Gordon stiffened.

John stuck his head in. “Gord—”

“I’m trans!”

John stared at Gordon, and Gordon stared back, just as shocked that it came out of her mouth as John was.

“Oh-kay. Thank you for trusting me with that.” John said, reliably smoothing over the awkward conversation. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Yes! Fuck, yes John, I do want to talk about it. Please.” Gordon’s shoulders sagged. 

“Alright.” John stepped into the room, door still open behind him. “I came to tell you there’s lunch downstairs, but do you want to talk now instead?”

Gordon nodded. She wasn’t sure she could hold it in, now that she’d said it out loud. She teased the end of her shirt, and gestured for John to sit on the bed. John shut the door behind him carefully, before crossing the room and sitting down amongst the jungle squid and whale plushies. Gordon stayed standing, staring at her feet. 

“So.” John prompted.

“So?”

“So, you’re trans?”

Gordon nodded. “Mmhm.”

“Want to tell me about it?”

“I guess.” Gordon shrugged. 

“Okay.” John said. “When you’re ready.” 

Gordon nodded, so John knew she’d heard, and she worried her bottom lip with her teeth. How did she explain something so simple, yet so intricate? Something she wanted to share, but at the same time wanted to hold close. Would it make it more true, when others knew? Would it even matter, since it was already true to her? Gordon wasn’t used to being so choked for words. 

“I’m trans,” she said, slowly. “I’m a woman.”

“Okay. Thank you for telling me.”

“I wanna use she/her pronouns, but I…” Gordon spared a glance at her brother, his bright eyes soft, and expectant. “I’m gonna keep using Gordon, for now at least. I know that a lot… most trans people change their names, but I like mine, and, and I might change my mind later, but for now…”

“You’re under no obligation to change your name just because you’re a trans woman, Gordon.”

“I know,” Gordon said softly. “I just…” Heat prickled under her eyes. “I’m just.” She sniffled, trying to push away the on-coming tears. “Fuck! How did I not notice before?” Gordon scrubbed furiously at her eyes, whirling to face her older brother. “How on earth did I manage to go twenty-seven years, and not notice I’m a woman?”

John reached out, fingers brushing Gordon’s arm to tug her closer. “Come here, Gordon.” John pulled her gently onto the bed, and tucked her under his chin, and rubbed his knuckles on her back in small circles. 

“I’m just so…How?” Gordon whispered. 

“You just didn’t.” John didn’t tack on any softer words. He just continued to rub circles into Gordon’s back while she cried, hot and angry. 

After a while, Gordon’s grief for lost time, dissipated into gently pulsing hope. She pulled her arms out from where they were curled between her and John, and wrapped them around him. “Aw, man, John,” she said, voice hoarse. “Guess what?”

“What’s that, Gordon?”

“I’m so happy I told you.”

John smiled. “I’m happy you told me, too, Gordo.”

Gordon pulled away, and grabbed a bright blue squid. “So does this mean I’m your favourite sister?”

“Oh, I dunno,” John said. “Kayo holds that spot pretty tightly.” 

“Aww, but Johnny!” 

“You just lost all chance of gaining that title for a week.”

Gordon wacked John with the squid. “Rude, you are. Rude!” 

“Boys!” Grandma called from downstairs. Gordon winced, the smile dropping off her face. John put a hand on her knee, thumb rubbing gently. “If you want food, come quick!”

“We’ll be there in a minute, Grandma!” John called back. To Gordon, he said. “You want to tell them today, too?”

Gordon shrugged. “Maybe. I’m still a bit… feeling a bit raw, still, so maybe later.”

“Alright.” John nodded. “You let me know, and I’ll be there.” 

Gordon smiled weakly. “Thanks John.”

“Of course, Gordon. You’re my sister. I love you.” 

“Love you, too John.”

“Let’s get some food, though. We really don’t want to be stuck with Grandma’s leftovers.”

Gordon’s eyes widened in horror. “Absolutely we do not. Let’s go, let’s go.” Gordon shot out the room, and down the stairs leaving a trail of stuffed animals. She was playing it up, just a little bit, John knew, but that was okay.

John sighed, with a smile, as he picked up the few stray animals, and threw them back onto Gordon’s bed. A lot of new things might be coming their way, but some things never change.

[pareidoliaonthemove]

Where's Mine?

It was a blessed break in rescues, and Virgil was taking the opportunity to restock his personal snack stashes.

The most important ones would be in Thunderbird Two – both in the cockpit and cunningly secured in the various pod bodies. Rescues could be both arduous and time-consuming, and there was rarely the chance for a proper meal. Their ‘official’ ration bars and packs were all well and good, but each of the Tracys had their own preferences.

Scott’s personal snack stashes were aboard Thunderbird One (and Thunderbird Two, Virgil had found them – and occasionally ‘appropriated’ part as a ‘transport tax’). And were, unsurprisingly, apple-pie themed. Apple-pie flavoured protein bars, apple-pie flavoured cakes, apple-pie flavoured chewing gum, apple-pie flavoured fruit/custards, and one time, even mini-apple-pies in a cold box.

Gordon’s snacks were his ubiquitous Celery Crunch Bars, a left-over from his calorie-controlled Olympic training diet. The noxious green bars (as well as their wrappers and crumbs) occupied Thunderbird Four – and Thunderbird Two. Gordon didn’t bother trying to hide his snack stash – nobody else would eat the disgusting things. And that went double for his ‘cheese’ spray cans.

John’s ‘stash’ was no secret. Thunderbird Five’s kitchen pantry was filled to bursting with bagels – and chocolate. Grandma had long despaired of the astronaut’s diet, and had threatened – numerous times – to blockade John’s supply line and only allow whole fruits and vegetables into orbit. John’s vowed retribution of stopping production of her precious soap operas quickly shut down any attempts to interfere with his diet.

Alan’s snacks were a diabetic crisis waiting to happen. High energy, high sugar snacks graced Thunderbird Three (and Thunderbird Two – Virgil was beginning to think his precious ‘Bird was considered as little more than a mobile snack shack), a rotating roster of brands as Brandon ‘The Bear’ Berringer lost and gained new sponsors. The only exception was the venerable ‘Spaceman Food’, based on NASAs food rations in the early days of manned space exploration.

All the brothers had gone through a phase of hoovering up the highly processed ‘snacks’. Virgil had a memory of insisting that his father eat them constantly – thinking that they were what he ate in space, and not wanting his father to be ‘unhappy’ on Earth. Jeff, whose orbital diet was much better than those early pioneers’, choked down the bars to humour his son. Lucy had finally taken pity on her husband, and convinced Virgil’s younger self that when he was in space his father missed ‘Earth food’, but couldn’t take it into space, so when at home he should be left to eat the same as the rest of the family.

Virgil’s own snacks tended to be more varied. Although there was a definite trend towards coffee-flavours, it wasn’t exclusive. At various times, there could be pre-packaged cakes and cookies, protein bars, dried fruits, chocolates, and various sweets. An outbreak of pilfering from Virgil’s stash had been combated by the inclusion of chocolate-covered grasshoppers, candied ants, and meal-worms with various chip flavours. All of which hadn’t been too bad, Virgil thought. His brothers’ disgust was misplaced, food was food, after all. And good food was good.

And Virgil liked trying new things, so he scoured the online market places for small businesses with interesting, shelf-stable snacks to compliment his tried and true favourites. As he sat on his bedroom floor with the various boxes and containers around him, he was pleased with the assortment this time.

He was sharing out the various incoming supplies to boxes to replenish his various snack stashes. Thunderbird Two – the Pods – his Workshop in the Hangars – Studio – and his ‘Official’ stash in the Villa’s pantry.

The klaxon blared, and John’s hologram popped up. “International Rescue, we have a situation.”

Virgil jumped up, grabbed a box at random, and hurried out of the room.

The situation was in Cairo, a massive sinkhole had opened up beneath four residential blocks of flimsy high-rise buildings at approximately breakfast time. The death toll was massive even before International Rescue had been contacted. All that was left to them was to stabilise the edges to prevent it enlarging beyond the six blocks it had consumed by the time International Rescue had taken control of the Danger Zone, before trying to extract the pathetic few lifesigns before they too blinked from existence.

The heat was intense. It was now noon in the middle of the northern hemisphere’s summer, and the temperature had surpassed the 35 degree Celsius mark hours ago.

The air conditioning in the Pods were good, but it had its limits, and Virgil’s gecko pod had reached it over an hour ago. He was hot, tired, hungry, and still had hours of work to be done.

A moment of realisation had him reaching for a compartment built into the side of the pod body, where he had stashed a handful of the snacks he had brought with him.

Without looking he had fished one out, and brought up into his eyeline. It was a freeze dried ice-cream, a ‘Paddle-Pop’ which was apparently an ‘iconic’ Australian treat.

Virgil had had no idea what flavour ‘rainbow’ was supposed to be, but the concept had been intriguing, and he eagerly tore open the packet now, and, considering, decided to start at the top, sticking part of the treat into his mouth.

It was, he decided, a kind of bubblegum flavour, and the sweetness was welcome, even if he wasn’t convinced by the texture. It had a kind of chewy, gluggy marshmallow feel to it, and Virgil quickly decided that he would let it slowly dissolve in his mouth.

He wondered idly if he could break the remainder into bite-sized pieces for future use, as he refocused on what he was doing.

John’s hologram flared into life in front of him. “Virgil–” John performed a comic double-take as he saw the ice cream in Virgil’s mouth. “Uh, do you have an estimate for when we can commence retrieval operation?”

Virgil eyed his readouts, and performed a couple of quick mental calculations. “Another half to three quarter hour,” he said, pulling his snack from his mouth by its stick. “Alan will be able to start pulling large rubble out of the way with Thunderbird Two, Gordon and Scott can reconfigure the pods for gecko lift, and I’ll go in with my exo-suit. Local rescue to standby and receive victims and remains. We’ve just got to finish coating the bottom of the south-west sector.”

John nodded. “I’ll relay those instructions,” he promised, before giving Virgil another questioning look as the snack was stuffed back into his mouth.

Virgil was going to need a lot of energy, and fast.

An undetected weakness in a the section of the sinkhole that still had to be stabilised blew out Virgil’s projected timeline, and it was over an hour later before he climbed out of his pod in the relative coolness of Thunderbird Two’s module alongside Scott.

“Hey, Virgil! What config for the gecko lifts do you …” Scott’s voice trailed off at the sight of the ‘ice cream’ in Virgil's mouth, before deciding there were more important things to focus on. “Uh. Um. Should I set them up for claw or grapple?”

Once again, Virgil pulled the confectionery out of his mouth by the stick. “One of both to start with. If necessary, the other pod can be reconfigured, but until we start picking that mess apart, we won’t know for certain what we need.”

Scott nodded, and jogged over to the holographic controls, but not without giving Virgil a puzzled look as he shoved his treat a back into his mouth and headed towards his exo-suit.

The exo-suit was wrapped around him, locking into position, and he rolled his shoulders, stretching out before he started the physically intensive part of the rescue.

Jogging back towards the internal access, Virgil headed back to the cockpit, grunting in frustration when he couldn’t sit down wearing the exo-suit. He was going to be on his feet too long soon enough, and he would have liked to save whatever energy he could now.

Alan burst into the cockpit and beelined towards the pilots chair without acknowledging Virgil. Great. The kid was in a snit about being ‘left out’ again – Virgil sighed tiredly, Alan really should have learned by now that it wasn’t his age that had put him in the cockpit, it was his lack of specialisation in this type of rescue.

Alan triggered the comms even as he was adjusting the pilots seat. “Thunderbird 2 to Pods. Please update status.”

Scott’s voice came back immediately. “Thunderbird 2; Gecko Claw Pod. Clear.”

“Thunderbird 2; Gecko Grapple Pod. Clear.” Gordon chirped a handful of seconds later.

“FAB, Pods. Thunderbird 2 commencing lift off to take hover station above Danger Zone.”

Virgil was pleased to note Alan’s professional conduct over the comms. Maybe he had been wrong about the attitude? Maybe Alan was just tired.

“Thunderbird 2 in position. Standing by for extraction and to grab and lift designated targets.”

Alan cut the open comm line, before speaking again. “Alright, Virgil; where am I,” he glanced over his shoulder and started. The jolt went right down his arms and into Thunderbird 2’s control yoke, and she bucked enough that Virgil had to grab hold of the overhead grab bar to steady himself. “Shit, sorry. Um. Where am I dropping you off, Virgil?”

“Language,” Virgil said absently, once he had pulled his snack out of his mouth again. He glanced again at the holographic display of the top levels of the debris pile. “Right next to that two story chunk of apartment building in the centre. That’s my first priority location for search and rescue. That looks like it’ll have a high concentration of survivors.” He frowned. “I know solar power is better than any of the alternatives, but in a situation like this, it really messes with our close range sensors. I wish there was a way to remotely stop the battery discharge.”

Alan nodded. “Be careful. I don’t want to be digging you out again because your exo-suit shorted out with you in it.”

Virgil frowned. “Brains and I reworked the entire grounding system after that. It was a one in a billion chance.”

The little brother snorted. “Yeah, well, Scott had to make a supply run to the mainland for hair dye after that. I don’t wanna have to do the same.”

Virgil chuckled. “No chance, kiddo. You have to shave before you worry about that.”

He took two big bites of his treat, tucking the chunks into his cheeks hamster style before returning the snack to its package in his baldric, and setting his helmet in place and striding over to the floor hatch and locking his grasping claw onto the winch-fed safety line.

Alan double-checked their position. “Good to deploy, Exo-Suit.”

“FAB. Exo-Suit away.”

It was five, long, hot and dusty hours later when John finally called the rescue.

They hadn’t found anyone alive for the last three.

Virgil sighed as he hauled himself into Thunderbird Two’s pod to divest himself from the exo-suit.

No doubt there would be the usual recriminations. Why had they taken so long? Why had the spent the time shoring up the sides? Grieving families rarely understood that first the site had to be made safe for the rescuers. All they saw was people letting their loved ones die.

All they would see was the people who were supposed to save their loved ones flying away and leaving them.

Not all the missing had been accounted for.

Scott was going to have to pay PR another bonus after this one.

Virgil groaned as the weight of the exo-suit disappeared from around him, along with its support. It wouldn’t be the first time he hadn’t been able to stand upright once the framework had been removed from around him. He had learned quickly to leave his helmet on until after he knew he could stand upright.

It had taken a considerable bribe to buy John’s silence as to the exact cause of that broken nose.

Satisfied that he would remain upright, he removed his helmet, and took a deep breath. No matter how much Brains protested, the built-in filters gave the air a distinct taste, and it was a relief to breathe the fresh air of the module.

His stomach gave a growl as he stepped into the internal corridors leading to the cockpit. Virgil idly wondered if he could convince Scott to pick up some takeaway on his way back to the Island as he once again pulled the freeze-dried ice cream from his baldric and stuck it back in his mouth.

John was on the comms as he gained the cockpit. “...giving you a heads-up, Alan. Scott’s already told me to remote pilot Thunderbird One home. Given the duration and environmental conditions of this one, he doesn’t want to risk anyone flying alone. You’ll be taking shifts at the controls all the way back to Tracy Island.”

Alan snorted. “Yeah right. Scott and Virgil will have a hissy fight, Virgil will win ‘cause it’s his ‘Bird, Scott’ll sulk in the co-pilots seat, while Gordon and I are sent back to the bunks to ‘rest’, despite having done the least amount of physical work. Meanwhile, you’ll secretly have remote control and will be flying us home anyway.”

John smiled. “Maybe.”

Virgil flopped into one of the jumpsuits, shucking off his baldric and harness before pulling coverall uniform off his torso and tying the arms around his waist. “Nope,” he mumbled around the confectionery. “The Thunderbird Pilot you’re calling is not available. Please call again when he is conscious.”

Alan and John stared at him. “You okay, Virgil?” Alan asked, standing up to try feel Virgil’s forehead.

He batted the hand away. “Fine, Alan. Nothing that a good shower, a good meal, and a good sleep won’t fix. A good massage would be nice, too. Remember that place in Japan, Johnny?”

“I remember. The masseuse literally walked all over your back for an hour. I don’t know how you stand it. And don’t call me Johnny.” There was a question in John’s face as he considered Virgil. “Say, Vir–”

He was cut off as Scott stumbled into the cockpit to collapse groaning into a chair, followed by an altogether too energetic and bouncy Gordon who slammed, performing a comedic double-take when he noticed Virgil.

“What the seven seas, Big Guy? You have ice-cream and you’re not sharing? Dude, where’s mine? I thought these guys were kidding me! Where’d you even get ice-cream from, anyway?!”

Virgil closed his eyes as his three other brothers joined in on the chorus of questions and recriminations.

Maybe keep the freeze-dried ice creams for his studio in future.

Notes:

This one’s been sitting in my WIP pile for the last six months.

A co-worker had brought a freeze-dry set up and set up a little side-hustle selling freeze-dried snacks. I brought a packet of paddle-pops and amused myself at various loading sites, waiting a couple of hours and pulling out a freeze-dried icecream and sucking on it for the next four hours. In 40deg Celsius heat.

It’s the little things that make life worth living.

The standard disclaimers, I do not own Thunderbirds, either the TOS or CGI Series. (Although I do own copies on DVD.)

I do not do this for money, but for my own (in)sanity and entertainment.

[squiddokiddo]

✏️ and 🍪

Hey, thanks for asking!!

🍪 • I answered the cookie one here if you'd like to check that out.

✏️ • Have I ever written fanfiction?

Yeah, so far I've only posted 3 self indulgent ficlets for my oc Squirt linked below:

.⊹*𖦹 🦈🦈 🎃🎃 🍂🍂 𖦹*⊹.

I've written some cringey fanfic in my early teens for myself and a friend who, at the time, was crushing hard on John.

I collaborated with @katblu42 in 2021 on a TAG minibang project named Deep Water. Katblu wrote the fic and I made the illustrations but we both came up with the story together. (If that counts)

I'm also working on something for TAG Secret Santa this year, I would normally draw but I felt the prompts were aiming more towards fic territory.✨

.⊹*𖦹Ask game𖦹*⊹.

[cg29]

@myladykayo 🥰Love this!

Obsessed with the concept of a character who has never been treated kindly or gently in their life (or in a very long time) and suddenly being treated gently and with care and being stunned and then overwhelmed by it.

[scribbles97]

I'm so glad you're back! I don't want to put any pressure on you, I'm just wondering if you'll come back to write 'Left Behind' one day?

Either way, I will enjoy reading what you write.

Oh lovely lovely nonny thank you for the message! It always means an awful lot to hear questions about a specific fic from someone 💕

I’m never going to make any promises because my muse is a fickle thing and will absolutely take and leave things as it fancies. Plus, Left Behind is a Mammoth of a story that I still have a lot left to plan and write - it’s a fic I’ve not actually written for near two years and getting back into something like that after so long isn’t easy. My writing style has possibly changed since then and I worry that that change could be jarring to readers.

However, I do so love writing about the relationships between the boys and their (many) parental figures. As well as writing the parental figures themselves and their relationships with IR and each other (Jeff and Lucy are always going to be my OTP).

So I’m not saying never, but I’m not saying absolutely.

What I will say, however, is that my muse is very much running towards the Thunderbirds ball pit and wants to play and I have a week off in a couple of weeks…

[hebuiltfive]

HAPPY BIRTHDAY SCOTT TRACY!

I was going to post a snippet from my WIP, but there was nothing that suited a birthday post so I created a little extra piece. There's reference to the WIP, but I hope it isn't too confusing. The main aim was to have a little Scott and Virgil brotherly moment. I hope it worked.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

THIRTY

Characters: Scott Tracy, Virgil Tracy

Words: 2,267

Summary: He was supposed to be enjoying his 30th birthday party, but thoughts of impending doom never seem to leave the former Commander of International Rescue's mind.

(AO3 link here, or keep reading below the cut).

Time stopped for no-one.

Minutes ticked by on his watch face. Calendar paper that had been torn off noted how fast the months flew along. One minute you’re celebrating the start of spring, the next there’s snow on the ground because you’re heading into winter. Day after day after day, time continued, no matter the circumstances that filled a person’s life.

Time never stopped.

Scott Tracy found himself pondering this as he stared out towards the horizon. The sun had started to set, so he’d stolen himself away to the poolside for a few minutes of quiet reflection. He was never usually so pensive at such events, but he figured hitting a milestone birthday was as good a time as any. The party had been wonderful. It was a quiet get together with his family and close friends. Scott always preferred those kinds of parties on Tracy Island to the garish and loud parties he had to attend as the eldest of Jeff Tracy’s sons, the world’s eyes upon him as camera flashed in his face. He sighed. He was going to have to face one of those events again in a few days, and he knew there was no getting out of it. Despite his father’s pleas for him to not attend, Scott knew there was no other way around it. Besides, if something were to happen there, Scott would have preferred himself being the one in the line of fire than any of the other ‘Mr. Tracys’ the letter had so ominously addressed.

“You’re missing your own party.”

The unmistakable deep baritone of his brother Virgil came from behind him and broke him out from his pensive thoughts.

They all had worn matching party hats tonight, varying in colour by their ships. Whilst Scott wore a hat that was garnished with the colours of grey, blue and a streak of red at the top, Virgil’s was green with the pattern forming with hints of yellow and red. If Scott was being honest, he hated the having to wear the party hats. They always messed up his carefully styled hair. Scott was about to take his off once the lunch was over, but his Grandma had stopped him with a simple shake of her head. Begrudgingly, he kept it on, despite the absolute atrocity that would meet him when he finally could take it off at the end of the night. Thank God they no longer wore hats as part of their uniforms. Scott wasn’t sure his hair would have coped.

“What are you doing out here?” Virgil continued as he sidled up to stand beside Scott.

“Thinking.” Scott replied, glancing over at his brother once. He smiled a smile that was supposed to have convinced Virgil that all was well. The plan backfired, and Scott should have realised it would have because his brother Virgil had always had a keen eye when things were amiss.

“About what, dare I ask?”

There was a slight pause before Scott replied with his apathetic answer of: “Things.”

Virgil simply gave him a nod and said no more. It was a tactic Scott was so very familiar with after all these years. He wasn’t sure where his brother had learnt it but Virgil knew that, given enough time of waiting in the silence, Scott would crack and eventually tell him what was bothering him. He always had, he probably always would. As the eldest of his younger siblings, Virgil knew how to wait. He was patient enough and didn’t mind the silence that was now starting to become awkward.

In just over a minute, unable to take the quiet any longer, Scott finally broke. “The other day, Gordon asked me if I was starting to head into my midlife crisis.”

Virgil still said nothing, allowing Scott the space and time to open up however much he wanted. He continued to stare out at the horizon whilst Scott turned to him.

“But… I’m only thirty! I’m nowhere near the middle of my life yet, I hope.”

He’d only used The Gordon Incident as a way of distracting both himself and Virgil from the very real worry on his mind, but it occurred to him as he spoke to Virgil, his mind speeding along faster than Thunderbird One, that this idea of him hitting the middle of his life was a far more worrying concept than he’d previously given it credit. He wasn’t usually one to worry about age. It was, after all, something that was out of his control. Scott hated it, but he thought he’d made peace with it. Apparently he hadn’t. Gordon’s words had hit him deep and he hadn’t even noticed.

The plastic cup in his grasp, that was as red as the paintwork on Thunderbird Three, was lifted to Scott’s lips. He took a sip of the sparkling wine and then continued. “I mean, I know he was joking, but I don’t know. Thinking about everything I’ve done, everything I’ve not done; where I’ve gone wrong in life, or where I could make improvements… Virg, is thirty a good time to start questioning everything?”

After a few more moments of silence to make sure his older brother had truly finished, Virgil finally replied. “Scott, there is no right or wrong when it comes to anything in life. You know as well as any of us that you just have to go along with whatever is thrown at you, the good and the bad. There’s no time for regrets.”

The last sentence had Scott stunned for a moment. Those were his words. His words that he’d spoken to Virgil all those years ago. He blinked. “You remember that?”

“Of course I do. It was one of the first pep talks you ever gave me. I still have that picture somewhere too.”

“I didn’t know any of you even listened to my pep talks.” Scott joked. It earned him a laugh from Virgil and it was enough for the weight on his chest to ease a little.

Scott had been barely seven years old when he’d given his then-baby brother that talk. He’d found Virgil crying on the steps of the porch of the ranch house, two pieces of torn paper crumpled up in each palm. Their mother, busy with the newborn bundle that was Gordon and the toddler at her feet that was John, had told Virgil he wasn’t allowed to go down and see the horses that morning, so Virgil had tried to draw them from his memory. At only five years old, the talent that he’d come to possess for art in his later life was still a developing skill, and the crayon drawing was, in Virgil’s own words, “a mon-a-stross-i-tuss-ee” (monstrosity for those who don’t understand toddler). Scott had sat down beside him, arm around his little brother’s shoulder, and spoken about what he saw in Virgil’s slowly burgeoning talents.

“You told me that life was too short to worry so much. Remember?” Virgil offered, his big brown eyes as kind as ever. Scott shrugged as nonchalantly as possible, but he couldn’t deny himself a trip down memory lane, courtesy of his brother. Perhaps hearing the words spoken back to him, in Virgil’s voice this time, might help cure him of this sudden bout of worry. So, he listened.

His brother continued. “Life, you said, was about exploring and experimenting, finding what works and what doesn’t work. If you fail, you learn and you adapt. Strive for perfection, but know that you shouldn’t always expect to find it, especially on a first try.”

Hm. Perhaps Scott really did need to listen to his younger self’s advice. His face ridden with guilt, he glanced back over to the setting sun.

Virgil hadn’t finished. “When I was finished with my sobbing, you took me back inside to the kitchen table and you told me you were going to fix my drawing. Do you remember that?”

Scott, his lips quirking up in a smile, nodded as he recalled the memory fondly. “Wasn’t it dad’s industrial strength glue we found?”

“He went absolutely crazy.” Virgil’s deep laugh echoed around the poolside. “But you did what you said you were going to do. You fixed my drawing. You glued the two crumpled halves back together. You told me that life was too short to have regrets and that I should savour every moment, even those that were less than perfect.”

Behind them, the sound of Alan crashing the keys on the piano would have normally had Virgil running, but he remained standing beside Scott. His work here wasn’t over.

“Is this the part where you tell me, yet again, that I have to stop trying to be so darn perfect all the time?” Scott quizzed, only half joking. Though it was true that perfectionism was a deep rooted problem within the eldest Tracy, Scott hated being reminded of it.

This time, it was Virgil’s turn to shrug. “I can’t tell you what to do with your life, Scott, you know that. I can, however, advise that you stop dwelling on the what-ifs, the might-have-beens, and the what-comes-nexts. Thirty isn’t the end of your life.”

It could be though, Scott thought. In the line of work they were in, any day could be their last. On too many occasions had they all been reminded of that, and the same thought must have crossed through Virgil’s mind because he quickly added, “Well, as far as we know it isn’t.”

Scott chuckled sourly. It was the grim reality of what they all faced, but each one of them had accepted the odds. If it meant helping people, they’d all make that solemn vow again.

“Gordon was just being Gordon. Don’t let whatever he said get into your head. You know he would be kicking himself if he knew he’d caused this spiral.”

Oh, he knew. It was why Scott had come out to the pool, to watch the sun set, on his own. His brothers rarely meant their words with malice, even if Gordon sometimes had too much of a bite with his jokes. But Virgil was right; if he knew, he’d have been trying to make it up to Scott for the next month or so, and Scott wasn’t keen on that idea. “No, I know. And Gordon doesn’t need to know about this. God, please, Virgil! Keep this to yourself? The last thing I need right now is the rest of them checking in on me daily to make sure I’m okay. I’ve got enough on my plate without that.”

“You still haven’t worked out who that letter was from yet?”

There it was. The reminder of what was truly bothering him. “No idea.” Scott replied grimly.

The mysterious envelope that had landed on his desk back at Tracy Industries the other day was the talk of the family. With a message that could have been a thinly veiled threat, Scott had been non-stop dwelling on who the scribe could have been.

“But I don’t want to get into that now.” His head tilted back to the villa. “We should probably head back in. They’ll start to wonder where we are, and anyway I think I need another cup of this stuff. Where did Penny say she bought it from?”

Scott could see Virgil starting to worry over the whole letter business, and was glad when he didn’t decide to question him on it further. Scott was all talked out. Besides, Virgil was right when he had told him he was missing his own party. Rarely did they get time off to enjoy such intimate events with the whole family. He should have been cherishing the time with those he loved, rather than worrying over things he couldn’t currently control.

With a smile, Virgil turned and began to lead the way back in. “No idea, but Gordon could probably tell you. He does hang off every word she says.”

“I don’t know how she stands it.” Virgil offered another laugh as they entered the kitchen and strode back up the stairs to the lounge.

Scott was greeted by an overly excited, and possibly tipsy Alan, who began dragging him over to the holo-gaming area he’d set up. Apparently Alan was eager to try and beat him at Twister VR, though Scott was certain it would be another winning game to him.

By the time morning arrived on the island, and Scott awoke with a sluggish brain from all the alcohol and dancing from the night before, all dreary thoughts of regret from the previous night had gone. His talk with Virgil, as always, had helped quench those worries.

There was still one worry he had to work on, sluggish brain or not. The letter. Unlike his mid-life crisis worries, the mystery surrounding that piece of paper still remained. For a moment, Scott wondered whether he should have spoken more to Virgil about it. Perhaps then the worry over the contents of that letter, and what it meant, would have dissipated like his other worry had… No, though it was a nice thought, Scott knew that the only way to solve the mystery was to face it head on, consequences be damned. Though his father had warned  him against it, he would be attending the gala event tomorrow night. Alone. He’d just have to hope he was prepared for any eventuality, because Virgil was right; he shouldn’t dwell on the ‘what-comes-nexts’.

Besides, ploughing in and hoping for the best was his speciality, and he’d be damned if it failed him now.