Archive of Our Own ^beta

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The man probably didn’t even realize what he’d been doing. He couldn’t have known, or else he wouldn’t have done it. Who in their right mind would stab the rescuer trying to free them?

Despite the fact he was bleeding out, those were the only thoughts Scott Tracy could form as he lay in the mud and debris, each breath feeling like another stab from the man’s dagger. Occasionally he’d hear a distant murmur of voices that would draw him from said thoughts—could it be his radio?—but the distraction never lasted and his mind would turn once more to the absurd reality in which he found himself.

He had been knee deep in water, a pry bar in hand. When it came to floods and tsunamis, the more people on the ground the better, and in this case he knew he was a stronger asset out amongst the local rescuers rather than inside of Thunderbird 1. Virgil needed more experience running things from the commander’s seat so he’d let him take over when they landed, but when it became apparent even more hands were needed, Virgil’d left the overseeing of the operation to John.

Gordon and Alan had been dispatched shortly after, making it one of the first missions in a long time that involved all five brothers. Their dad would have called it an all-hands-on-deck rescue, and it stayed one for some hours, the chances of finding survivors lessening with every passing minute.

Scott himself had found only dead bodies since he started, and he had been about to tell John it was time to switch the mission directive from rescue to recovery when he saw it: a hand waving a white flag from inside a half collapsed shed. He’d started towards it immediately, hope rising inside his chest as he slogged through the mud with energy he shouldn’t have had after seven hours of searching.

“Gordon, I have a live one—” He quickly relayed the position to his nearest brother, reaching the shed within moments of receiving his brother’s confirmation.

“Are you hurt?” he called through the crack at the door. Exciting shouting in a language he didn’t understand—Virgil would’ve been able to tell him what it was—greeted him, so he shone a light inside to get a better look at what he was dealing with.

He could make out a dark-haired head and dark skin, ragged clothes sopping wet and sticking to the man’s lean frame, save for his shirt, which he had been waving with. He was probably a worker who had been trapped when the flooding unexpected started. Scott had been glad to see he wasn’t wounded. He went to work on the door immediately. It was open a few inches--that was how the man had been able to wave his shirt outside to catch Scott’s attention, but was pinned in place by debris that the flood had drawn around the shed’s base.

Scott got to work moving most of the garbage away, and then set his pry bar against the door and busted door jam. It all took less than a minute, and the door was open, and he’d been reaching a hand inside to help the man out when the dagger appeared.

It just came out of nowhere. He watched it in slow motion, as the man threw aside the shirt that had been hiding it in his hand, and then rammed it up into his ribs. Watched, stunned, as the man retracted his hand, but the handle remained pinned to Scott’s chest where it had gone in. He’d looked up at the man again, trying and failing to speak, and he remembered the shock of seeing a smile and flashing eyes—

And then he’d fallen backwards, saved from drowning only because he’d fallen into the trash he’d moved aside when trying to open the door trapping the man. The man stood for a long while, staring down at him, and Scott finally managed to take in his first breath, choking on a sob when it felt like he’d been stabbed again, eyes squeezing shut. When he opened them again, the man was gone, and he was alone.

And now he was staring at the sky, bleeding to death, drowsily convincing himself it had been his own fault for getting stabbed, because the man hadn’t known what he was doing. He couldn’t have. Nobody would kill a rescuer for trying to free them. Nobody, except for…

“Scott? Scotty!”

He was distracted by the voice. Wait…he knew that voice. It was Gordon.

“That’s right, Scotty, it’s me—”

Strange how he hadn’t heard his brother’s approach; he couldn’t see him either. And he knew his eyes were open because he felt when he started to close them, the voice became more frantic.

“No! No, don’t close your eyes, Scott, just stay awake, for me—”

When Gordie used that voice, turning him down was practically impossible. Always had been. Always would be. But Scott found it very difficult to force his eyes back open all the same. He was rewarded for his efforts by a hand on his face; someone was cupping it, warming his cold cheek with their palm. God, it felt so warm…

“That’s it, Scott—that’s it. Just hold on. I’m here and it’s going to be okay—”

The rest of the voice’s words slowly drifted away, but Scott found himself smiling. He’d had something to tell Gordon, but he didn’t remember what it was anymore. It was okay though—the most important words had already been said, and he knew his brother didn’t lie. It was going to be okay. It was going to b…

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His chest was heaving from the run, his legs trembling and weak, bile rising up in the back of his throat from the incredible strain his body had been under since dawn. But he didn’t stop moving, because he had no choice—Virgil Tracy would die if he stopped.

Another gunshot had him ducking behind a nearby tree, but the pause was temporary, and he was soon running through the underbrush again, almost losing his balance when he tripped over a few tree roots. His hands, tied together in front of him, didn’t help matters, and once again he was driven by desperation to bring them to his mouth so he could try gnawing on the rawhide that kept them trapped together. The only thing he managed to accomplish was putting a bitter taste back in his mouth.

“You won’t get it off that easily!” a voice taunted him from a loudspeaker somewhere in the treetops. Virgil grit his teeth and ignored it, continuing to jump and move between the trees as he tried to elude his tormentor.

To his horror as he burst through the tree line, he found himself back at the same fork in the road he’d found an hour ago. He looked around wildly, trying to figure out where he had gone wrong and ended up in a circle, but there was another crack of a rifle behind him, and it sent up a plume of dirt at his feet. He took off again, taking the same fork as before, positive this was the way—positive…and yet…

…If it had been right, how did he end up back where he started?

It’s because you are dehydrated and weak from being captured, a voice taunted him inside of his head. It’d taken on the same tone as his captor, and he hated it, but couldn’t seem to tune it out. You don’t have the mental or physical stamina to outrun him. And now you’re going to keep running in circles, until he finally catches up…

“Wrong,” Virgil gasped aloud to himself as he ran. But he was swaying, bare feet blistered and sore, and it was just a matter of time before his knees buckled and he was unable to push himself back up. “You’re—wrong…!”

Then why are you going in a circle again?

“I’m not! I know—I…” He drew clumsily to a halt, panting as he looked around, his surroundings too familiar. He had passed by this fork before, too. Only last time he’d taken the wrong one, and ended up back where he started. But which one had it been! The left or right? And which was the right one?

A squawk of a loudspeaker hurling more taunts at him to his left made him start towards the right, but then he stopped, blinking sweat out of his eyes in confusion. No, he was sure it was the left one. But what if that was the direction the man was waiting for him to go? His captor had been playing mind games this whole time and this could just be another part of it!

But Virgil didn’t have it left in him to puzzle over any of his captor’s games. He was utterly exhausted, vision darkening along the edges—and if he stood there any longer the man wouldn’t have to run to catch him because he’d find him lying curled up on the path where he was standing. He had to make a choice, and now. But he didn’t feel like he had anything left in him.

You’ve got this, Virg! Scott’s strong voice suddenly told him in the back of his head. The unexpected voice of his brother brought tears to his eyes and he scrubbed the back of his tied hands against his eyes. Don’t give up!

Take a breath. You won’t pass out. I know you won’t, Virgil, said John, ever reasonable and unflappable.

And trust your gut, big bro! Gordon added. He’s trying to confuse you with those stupid loudspeakers!

Just keep moving! Alan urged. You can do it!

The hesitation ended--he took the left fork, and just as he moved, another bullet was fired, this one shattering a small tree branch and vine over his head. He ducked, but didn’t stop. His vision cleared, and the further he went, the more he knew it was the right path. After all, Virgil had been raised on Tracy Island—he knew it better than the back of his hand. His eyes narrowed.

And he knew it better than that bastard.

The dirt path between the trees became more worn the further he went, and the trees started to clear in front of him. He put on a burst of speed, legs pounding against the ground—

The villa suddenly appeared, and he almost fell to his knees as he left the jungle behind, weak with relief. But the enraged shout behind him was all the motivation he needed to keep running at full speed. The infiltrator to the island thought he knew every last inch of the island, but Virgil knew it better. If he could find the secret entrance into Thunderbird 2’s bay, he’d be safe. And once he was safe, he could try to make contact John, who had been cut off for the better part of three days now and was probably going half-mad with worry.

Maybe John would know what happened to the rest of his family—

Could tell him why they never came looking for him.

His mind was on the task ahead of him, but it should have been on where he was stepping. A tired foot slid in the sand, and he went sprawling, grunting as he collided with the ground and skinned his hands. He managed to get back to his feet, but he’d lost valuable time. And when he looked up, it was into the barrel of a rifle.

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He doesn’t even want to look.

It burns, and every time the rope slips it burns a little more, but John Tracy can’t loosen or adjust his grip because then his hands will weaken reflexively, and if that happens—he doesn’t want to think about will happen.

“Virgil!” he calls out, voice ragged from the bad air and hoarse from having called too many times.

There is no reply from the end of the rope. He had his eyes squeezed shut, refusing to look again, but finally he opened them, eyes going immediately to the edge of the pit that’d swallowed his brother and the miner they were sent to rescue. It was dim in the tunnel, but he could see a haze in the air thanks to the fallen searchlight by his side. If you can see it don’t breathe it, he remembers his father telling him. If only he could follow the advice, but his respirator had been knocked loose in the collapse and it was dangling around his neck on a broken strap.

Just when his mind turned to the possibility of shifting a little to try and get the respirator back on his face, the rope twisted a little. It wasn’t much but it was enough and John gritted his teeth in pain as it slid a few precious inches when his grip failed to keep it still. “No! No!”

There is little between him and the dark hole a few yards in front of him, and his boots slide slowly in the dirt despite his efforts to keep his footing, the heavy weight at the end of the rope pulling him towards oblivion. Somehow he manages to get one foot around a twisted piece of decades-old train track and he leans back, arresting his slide forward, hands quivering with the effort to hold onto the rope as it continues to slide free precious inch by precious inch.

Once again John looks for something to wrap the rope around but there isn’t anything near him that doesn’t sport a sharp edge that will soon make short work of the rope in hand. The only thing keeping the two men from falling is John, and John alone.

The section of rope that has slid free from his grasp since he first took hold of it is bloodied, and he doesn’t want to look down at his hands and see what’s left of them. But the pain was so agonizing John couldn’t resist the quick glance at his hands, and even in the dim light, he instantly regrets it, a sick feeling working up in his gut.

He had taken his gloves off to work on the control panel by the tunnel wall, trying in vain to get open the electronically controlled door that closed off their escape from the tunnel. The wires had been thin and fiddly, and against his better judgement he’d slipped the protective gloves right off and tucked them under an arm. Never remove any protective equipment! How many times had he told that to Alan and Gordon, lecturing them alongside Scott and Virgil? Too many times to have forgotten it himself.

He hadn’t been long trying at the panel when the wires began trembling in his hand, a tremor traveling through the floor. He turned to call to Virgil and the miner that another quake was coming, just as hit them. He grabbed onto the panel box to stay on his feet, managing to catch his searchlight with one hand before it crashed to the ground. Yards from him in the center of the tunnel, Virgil grabbed hold of the miner, pulling him out of the way of collapsing earth from above. They’d laid there, Virgil covering the man, John not moving from his spot by the panel box—he felt the line tied around his waist that connected him to the other two go slack as falling rubble severed the rope, and then grunted when a heavy piece struck his respirator, knocking it loose around his neck and leaving a bloody gash in its wake.

And then, just as quickly as the quake had come, it disappeared, leaving only trembling earth behind, and then after a minute longer, nothing. John ignored the wound on his own face, instead shining his searchlight immediately in the direction of the others, breathing again when he realized they had not been hit. The miner was laughing in relief as Virgil helped him to his feet.

“You two okay?” John called. Virgil lifted his head, a tired smile on his face as he met his brother’s gaze.

“Never bet—”

A loud groan cut him off. They both looked at the large crack forming in the ground, then looked back to one another. He’d never be able to forget that look on Virgil’s face when the ground suddenly opened up beneath him and swallowed him whole. It was a purely reflexive action that had him leaping forward, just in time to catch the rope as it started to disappear after the other two. Somehow he managed to get a grip on it—but the sudden dead weight tore at his bare hands, it took everything he had to just hold on, muscles taunt. There’d been a sickening thud at the other end, and he’d shouted Virgil’s name, but received no reply. And that was how it had been, for the last—he didn’t even know how long. Just as he didn’t know how long he’d been shouting his brother’s name, willing him to respond, willing Alan to contact Scott after he failed to hail him or Virgil on Thunderbird 5. He would hold on forever, if he could. But he couldn’t.

The rope was slipping out of his numb fingers, and even the strongest will in the world couldn’t make his grip any stronger than it already is; he was still shouting Virgil’s name as the last inch of the rough rope slid out of blood slick hands and snaked over the edge, leaving nothing behind.

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“S’okay…is’okay. They’ll…find…you…it…it’ll be…okay…”

The words kept slipping out, even though she had long since passed the point of being able to hear them. He shifted a little, trying to find a new position to lend whatever ounce of warmth he had left to the woman in his arms. She still didn’t stir, and he couldn’t see her face; couldn’t tell if the blue eyes were still wide with fright as they had been when he’d found her. But he couldn’t bring himself to feel for a pulse. Wouldn’t have been able to take one now even if he’d wanted, anyway, not with his frozen hands. His shivering had stopped some time ago but he told himself he could still feel her trembling weakly, and that was enough to give him hope that they would find her before it was too late.

He could still hear Scott’s warnings combining with Virgil’s telling him to come back to the safe zone, to not risk being caught in the second avalanche; but he couldn’t do as they ordered. Not this time. If they could have heard the transmission he picked up, they would have agreed; he knew they would have. So he moved further, further and further, until his eye caught sight of a ski sticking out of the snow—

Gordon’s head jerked back upright as his mind started to drift back over recent events, and he shifted again, trying to rock a little to keep from falling asleep. It was dangerous to fall asleep in the cold—he couldn’t do it. Couldn’t let her do it, either. No, he had to keep her alive…had to keep her safe…had to keep her safe…

“It’s—it’s okay,” he repeated, slurring his words and not even realizing it. “They…they’re coming…never…never let…me down. Any…any…of…” He trailed off, eyes starting to slide closed.

“I have children. Please. Please! Somebody help me!”

He started at the sound of the radio, trying to lift his arm to respond, before realizing he’d only been imagining the voice in his ear, and his hand dropped back down around her, and he held her closer, leaning his head against hers, staring at the cave wall across from them. The area was small, barely ten by ten. How he’d caught sight of it after pulling her free—he didn’t know. But they reached it just as the snow and ice started rolling…and then it was the two of them trapped, no ski sticking out of the snow to show where they were to the rescuers. One side of the cave, too small for either to fit through. So he’d tried digging, but it was too much and too heavy and both of them were cold and wet and tired and…and…

“How many children do you have?”

“I…I have five boys.”

It wasn’t just children. It was five boys. Five boys, just like his mother. He didn’t want them to see him like this. To find him, and her, like this, huddling in the cold, blue and stiff and…

“No!”

Gordon spoke louder than he meant to, unwittingly drawing himself out of the stupor he’d fallen into. He stared in confusion at the dark wall ahead of him, then slowly remembered the crash of ice and the roar that’d filled his ears before the silence descended.

Was that how it had been for his mom? Had it been fast? Maybe it was morbid to wish of for it, but he always hoped she died quickly, never had a chance to suffer through it. Now, trapped himself, he wished for it doubly so. What if she’d been trapped in a small pocket in the wet snow, still alive and desperately wishing to go home, only to finally realize as her air ran out that the rescuers would be too late, and that she would never see her family again?

If he’d had it left in him for tears to form, they would have been falling by now. It was just as well they wouldn’t be able to tell he’d fallen to pieces in the end. He wouldn’t have wanted that. He didn’t want to see proud Scott crying over his body like he’d done for their mother. Would Virgil just stand there sobbing, like he’d done for her? And what about her boys? He could see them standing there, faces pinched with hope and worry like Gordon’s had been, not yet realizing what the older boys already knew.

“Don’t…don’t cry,” he whispered to the faces that weren’t there. “I tried…I’m trying…it won’t…it won’t…happen again…I promise…don’t…don’t do this to them…don’t leave them…don’t leave me…”

He tucked his head closer to hers, willing what heat was left in his body to go to her instead. Maybe his brothers would find him there like that, with his arms around her, trying to save just one more life even as his own slipped away into the cold. It would be worth it…if she lived. If just one family could walk away from the avalanche whole—it would all be worth it.

“Gordon?”

“Gordie! Gordon, answer me!”

“GORDON!”

“You…you have t—t—to hold—hold—on,” he whispered, not hearing the muffled voices shouting his name. But he could still see the boys as everything else faded into blackness. Five boys, waiting—hoping.

“You…you…have to…mom…”

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The voices wouldn’t stop.

The whole world was painted red and he stood in the middle of it, unable to tear his gaze away from the carnage that surrounded him. There were so many different ways a person could die, and he saw all of them, playing out in front of him endlessly. He could close his eyes but they would appear anyway; shut his ears but still hear them; cover his nose and still smell the taint of death and fear. And through it all, the voices wouldn’t stop.

They screamed, they cried, they pleaded, and they were relentless. Some were from memories he’d long ago suppressed; lives he’d failed to save; bodies he’d been unable to keep from breaking. Others were from events he had been fortunate to not witness, but they played out just as vividly as if he had been present. Been present, and been one of the many who stood by helplessly and did nothing as another life was lost to tragedy.

It seemed he had always had the voices in his head, though he knew—some small part of him knew—that was not the case. There had been a time when his head housed only one voice, no sleeping demons, no fingers digging and prying deep into his skull and searching for the secrets he kept hidden there—

He had to stop them, find a way out—

“Quiet,” a new, stronger voice whispered as he rebelled against the foreign presence in his mind. A hand seemed to take hold of his chin, forcing him to look back at the death taking place before him. Blood was spilling all over the floor, close enough to splatter on his feet. It left such an ugly pattern on the floor that mesmerized and sickened him. “You’re losing track again. That’s no good; we might have to start it all over again from the beginning, and you wouldn’t like that, would you?”

No. He couldn’t start it all over again.

“…Please…” It was the first word that slipped out of his mouth since he didn’t know when. If it was a victory for his enemy, but he didn’t care. Nothing mattered but escaping the living nightmare. Escaping the room, his captor, the prison. The fingers trailed down his chin and tightened around his throat. Someone loomed up next to him but he couldn’t see them past the images of death, and he was powerless to move his own body, some invisible force holding onto him tightly, preventing his movement.

“Tell me the secrets of the island,” the voice ordered. “Tell me the secrets of the Thunderbirds.”

He opened his mouth, then hesitated at the eager tone, squeezing his eyes shut despite the fact he could still see the images burned into his vision. To give the answers would mean giving his captor a victory.

…But did he care?

He couldn’t bear even one more minute of the nightmare, and if he could be free by giving away the information he’d sworn never to reveal—

“Please,” he finally pleaded. “Please just stop.”

He received no response but a disgusted snarl. But the hand left him; and a moment after that, the vice pinning him in place finally vanished. He tore open his eyes, finding himself swaying in the middle of a dimly lit metal cell that appeared to be situated somewhere in the middle of a warehouse. But all other details of his surroundings were lost to him. He sank to his knees, unable to stand a moment longer, cold cement mercifully free of blood and death meeting his bruised hands. Maybe the Hood had finally grown tired of trying to break him—maybe he’d simply tired himself out. But he couldn’t have cared less because the voices were finally—

“Alan?” His head jerked up at the familiar voice shouting his name, blue eyes widening when he saw Scott running towards the bars of his cell. Tears sprang unbidden to his eyes at the sight of his older brother. Heart pounding wildly, he scrambled to his feet unsteadily, almost unable to believe his eyes.

“Scott? Scott!” He staggered towards him, sick with joy even as he slammed into the bars, one hand outstretched towards his brother. That was why the Hood vanished—because his brothers had finally found him!

“Alan!”

“You found me,” he cried as his brother neared the bars, almost within reach of his fingertips. “You—!”

His words got caught in his throat, expression becoming fixed as Scott suddenly lurched against the cage, face paling. Their confused gazes met, and then as one they looked down at the growing patch of blood spreading across the older Tracy’s jacket. Scott looked back up at him, blue eyes filled with pain and confusion. “Alan,” he gasped, bloodied hand grasping Alan’s. “Why…why didn’t…you…save me?”

Alan shook his head slowly, tears rolling down his cheeks as he watched the light fade from his brother’s eyes right in front of him. “No…no…Scott! Scott!” Alan tried to grab onto him as he slid down against the bars, but ended up falling to his knees beside him, trying to step the blood from a wound he couldn’t even see before finally staggering away, whirling around wildly in search of the one man capable of taking the vision away—of ending it all once in for all.

“Stop. STOP! PLEASE! I—I’ll tell you.” For him. “I’ll tell you what you want to know!"

Chapter Text

“—easily Scott! We weren’t finished—”

“—answer us!”

“—not fair, you can’t just do that—”

“—you aren’t Dad!”

Maybe it was a childish thing to do. The day had been a long one, for all of them, the losses from this rescue putting them all on edge—yet he’d kept his cool through worse, talked his brothers through worse. But this time, the argument just seemed to spiral out of control and…he was too tired. Tired of them pestering him to take a step back (as though he could!), to take a rest (as if he didn’t want to every minute he was in their dad’s office), and to stop micromanaging them (they were in danger too often for him to not mother-hen them!). He was tired of standing behind the desk that the great Jeff Tracy had stood behind, and he was tired of those damned alarms going off in the morning when all he wanted was to sit on the beach and watch the tide come in.

Scott Tracy was tired of them thinking he wanted the responsibility their dead father had laid on his shoulders.

So maybe it was childish, but he did it. He reached up and plucked the radio communicator off his baldric with trembling fingers so he didn’t have to hear them anymore, and he hurled it as far as he could into the ocean. It hit the waves with a dull splash he didn’t hear, and then he took in a deep, ragged breath. It hitched in his throat and he felt the corners of his eyes sting with unshed tears. But Scott Tracy didn’t cry. A few more breaths and he was somehow able to get himself under control, and he stared hard at the sunset, willing the tearing feeling in his chest to go away. It would be a good twenty minutes before any of them reached the island, thanks to the speed of Thunderbird 1. So he sat down and did what he’d been meaning to do for the last five years.

He watched the sunset.

It lasted for four minutes, maybe less. The temperature had dropped a few degrees, but residual heat remained in the sand underneath him, keeping the chill at bay. Stars were beginning to appear in the sunless sky; gradually, orange and red replaced by violet and dark blue spotted with pinpricks of white, gold, red and blue. He took in a deep breath as he looked up at them.

He was still sitting there when his brothers caught sight of him. Alan, trapped in Thunderbird 5, was the only one not present; Gordon, still riled up from the fight earlier and still covered in dirt and dust like the rest of them, immediately started to stalk towards him, face furious. Virgil fully expected them already to be arguing before he and John even reached him, and he opened his mouth to call out to stop his younger brother, but was surprised when Gordon drew to a halt only a few yards away from Scott without any intervention.

“Let us handle it, Gordon—” John started as they neared, but Gordon turned to face them, confusion replacing the anger that had been there. And upon reaching him, Virgil knew why. Scott was just sitting there, an odd expression on his face, mouth trembling as if at any moment he was going to fall to pieces. Scott didn’t look like that. He never, ever looked like that.

“…Scott?” Virgil said quietly, the first to break his stunned silence. Scott remained unmoving where he was sitting, knees pulled up to his chest and whole body trembling. He didn’t even blink or give any sign he heard them approach. A shiver of uneasiness ran up Virgil’s spine. “Scotty?” He tried again helplessly, glancing at John. John slowly went forward and crouched down beside their brother, hand hovering over his shoulder as though he wanted to try comforting him but did not dare touch him. “Scott? Hey, it’s me, John…”

Scott didn’t move. John was a momentary loss at the lack of response, then his clinical eye took in the dilated eyes and perspiration on his brother’s forehead, the trembling of tense muscles…then he spoke again, voice low.

“Hey Scott. You think you might want to get up?” Gordon felt a thrill of panic run through him when he heard the soft, rescuer-voice coming from John, and he started to take a step forward, to tell John to cut it out, that Scott was okay because how could he not be? But Virgil caught his hand, stopping him. Scott was shaking his head slowly, beginning to rock back and forth as he held onto his knees.

“Okay, you don’t have to get up yet. But there’s a nice bed up at the house,” continued John. He had a way of sounding so calm, as if everything was going to work out okay. He eased himself onto his knees beside his brother, trying to get him to look at him. He put a hand on his back, starting to rub small circles. “Maybe a few minutes and I’ll help you there. It’s been a long day; nobody’s even changed yet, but I’ll get a bath running for you to—”

“No point,” Scott suddenly interrupted. “We’ll have to go out again when there’s another call. What’s the point? There’s no point.” John felt his heart constrict at the heartbroken tone in his brother’s voice.

“Scott—”

“There’s no point,” Scott insisted, voice shaking. “I’m too tired, Johnny.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I feel tired all the time but I can’t get a break. I can’t even catch a twenty minute break!” His voice broke, but he caught himself, refusing to let the tears fall, refusing to fall to pieces. He ran a hand down his face, refusing to look at them. He just needed a minute. That was all. He needed a minute and he could pick himself back up and—and—no. He couldn’t just dive back into it. He didn’t even feel like he could stand up without suddenly falling over under the crushing weight of responsibility.

He was aware of another hand on his shoulder, and then a third. Someone was sitting by his side but he didn’t look, refusing to look. Why did his heart feel so heavy all of the sudden?

“Hey, Scott, hey, it’ll be okay, all right? Whatever it is, we’ll figure it all out, okay? Together?”

Scott was barely listening to him. They weren’t going to figure it out. They were going to talk about it, and it would end as it always did, with him taking the burden so his brothers didn’t have to, even if carrying said burden was crushing him bit by bit. Even if said burden was getting too heavy, too heavy, too much and too heavy—

He tried to focus on the stars to keep from shattering, to keep the sick feeling in his stomach at bay. Once upon a time, he’d known all their names. Once upon a time, he’d remembered the mother who told him their names—remembered the feeling of her arm over his shoulders, her voice naming each star as they sat together on the beach, just the two of them.

And it was sitting there, realizing he no longer remembered the names of said stars, no longer remembered the face of his own mother…that was when Scott Tracy cried.

Chapter Text

“Come on, up and at ‘em! It’s time to wake up.”

Virgil Tracy grimaced as the voice broke through what had been the start of a good dream, and tried to burrow his head a little further in his arms to reclaim the images of a sun soaked beach and an ice cold drink sitting tantalizing beside a beach blanket. God, his mouth was so dry…

“It’s time to wake up!” the voice insisted, annoyingly persistent. The dream started to evaporate, but he clung onto it tightly, as he tried to do with his pillow, too, which was a little harder than he remembered. “Come on, Virgil, you can’t sleep here!”

“Why not?” grumbled Virgil as the dream finally slipped away and out of sight. He opened his eyes reluctantly and tried to sit up, about to give his brother a what-for for having ruined one of the better dreams he’d had in a while when a twinge of pain ran down his neck, forcing a hiss of pain between his teeth. “Ow…”

 “That’s why. You’ll get a stiff neck,” Alan’s cheerful voice said behind him. He sounded as if he were smiling, which only made Virgil’s frown deepen as he blinked blearily at his surroundings, and realized he was not in bed, but in Thunderbird 2’s cockpit. Since when…? A hand patted his shoulder enthusiastically, distracting him. “Rescue’s been over for the last three hours, and this is where you decide to take a nap! Well, Scott won’t be happy, or Grandma when she finds out.”

“Don’t tell them,” Virgil ordered quickly, voice still slurred from sleep. The last thing he wanted was to be fretted over because he fell asleep after a rescue, and Scott and their grandmother could fret with the best of them—in different ways, of course. Ugh, he didn’t know which one was more terrifying…

It was sort of puzzling how he couldn’t remember what the rescue had been, though. A fire? No, that was a few days ago…ah yes. He remembered. The jungle; they’d been rescuing some professor or doctor or…or… he rubbed at his right arm absentmindedly. It must have gone to sleep after he was laying on it.

“Lucky I thought to check or you could’ve spent all night here,” Alan continued, not making any promises. “Come on, I’ll get you to your room before they notice. We’ll discuss the terms of my silence later, huh?”

 “…Fine,” Virgil finally agreed sourly. “Later.”

“Can you walk?”

“Of course I can walk,” Virgil returned, brushing off Alan’s attempts to help him stand. To both of their surprise, however, the moment Virgil stood he started to sway unsteadily; his hand caught Alan’s shoulder and he blinked sheepishly at him. “I…I guess I stood up too fast.”

“…Maybe.” Alan’s smile faltered. This rescue’s work had been tiring, but nothing out of the ordinary. Virgil felt sort of hot to the touch too, but that was understandable. It’d been an unpleasantly warm day. Maybe Virgil had just spent too much time working on Thunderbird 2 again—he and Gordon warned him about working all the time instead of having fun. They’d have to remedy that later, once Gordon got back to the island. He reached out an arm, supporting Virgil more evenly behind the shoulders. To his surprise, Virgil let him help him this time—but not for long. The moment they were on the walkway leading away from the giant machine, his older brother determinedly pushed his hand off, wanting to walk by himself.

Sometimes he could be as bad as Scott, Alan thought, but wisely didn’t say aloud.

Virgil managed a few steps by himself just fine—then the world unexpectedly started to tilt along the edge and he lurched into the nearby railing, one hand grasping onto the metal to keep from slipping. A chill ran up his spine as his vision locked onto the ground floor far beneath them—the thin metal railing suddenly felt inadequate and the most incredible sensation of falling came over him even though he wasn’t even moving—

“Virgil, you okay?” Alan’s concerned voice broke through to him and he blinked a few times, managing to tear his gaze away from the ground floor to his brother’s face.

“Yeah, I just…huh?” He trailed off, watching in surprise as the colors of the wall around them started to melt together—when he turned his head he could see the same thing happening to Thunderbird 2, the yellow accent slowly combing with the green. He stared at the machine, oddly mesmerized by its colorful destruction, then felt a hand shaking his shoulder, one patting the side of his face. It was with great difficulty he finally picked out Alan’s pale face in the midst of it all. His little brother’s mouth was moving but no words were coming out. That was odd—he’d heard him just a minute ago. He blinked, and it suddenly seemed Alan was towering over him—but that wasn’t right either! Alan was the baby of the family. What was he doing out on the walkway without someone to look after him anyway? Crazy kid, he could fall and hurt himself. Virgil tried to tell him so too, but his mouth didn’t want to move. None of him wanted to move. He was so tired…

“Virgil. Virgil!” A hand patted his face roughly, and his attention was drawn back to the face over him. No, not one face. Four faces. Four Alans. What a handful they were going to be, Virgil thought drowsily, eyes starting to close. At least there weren’t four Gordons, too. Then he’d never get any sleep. Sleep…that’s what he needed. Sleep… “When did you get this bite on your arm? Virgil—Virg! Stick with me, bro, tell me what bit you—Virgil!”

Chapter Text

Moving in water was, in its own strange way, akin to floating through space. The body didn’t have the same weightlessness, and the sensation of outward forces was new, but the apparent lack of gravity was still near the experience John Tracy lived for the majority of his life in the atmosphere of Thunderbird 5. Alan spent his fair share of time in space as well, yet somehow John knew it would be Gordon who would appreciate the subtle yet glaring differences between free space and deep ocean. If only he was experiencing such free weightlessness now…

“How’s the water down there, Johnny?”

His brother’s voice was light, but the tone was forced. John wanted to move his head to see the Fish’s progress through the underwater collapse, but he knew better than to do it. Not with things as they were. He shifted his hand just a little on the cord trapping him, and instantly regretted it when he felt a minute tremble under his glove. He gulped, feeling sweat clinging to his nose, the face mask long since fogged even though he was doing his best to just breath evenly and keep his heartrate down.

“Fine,” he said quietly, paranoid that speaking even a little would suddenly eat up what remained of his precious oxygen even though he knew he still had at least half an hour’s supply. Not that the supply mattered if the cord—he forced the thought from his head before it could finish. “How far are you?”

“Oh, not far. Be there in about fifteen minutes, maybe less. Just—hang tight, huh?”

“I’ll be here.”

The radio cut off. He knew Gordon was speaking to the rest of the family on a different frequency. He could have predicted Scott telling Alan to make the change, and even though ordinarily being kept out of the loop frustrated him more than he let show, this time he couldn’t have been more thankful. He needed the silence to gather himself, to stay calm and unmoving as possible. Not that he wanted to be where he was at all, but he was very thankful to be the one trapped in the wreckage and not say someone like Scott or Alan, who would have most definitely tried to move the moment they came to after the accident instead of taken a moment to gather himself like John.

He found himself tracing the dark outlines of broken beams and rubble around him that he’d first seen when he opened his eyes. Confusion had given way quickly to understanding. The research lab had been unstable—much like the other four that they’d already pulled victims from—but his and Gordon’s attempts to reason with the scientists to leave before the worst happened had been met with firm resistance. But he and his brother knew any moment the left leg of the underwater structure would collapse, and Gordon, being the expert swimmer, was the one sent to assess how long it would last while John tried to convince them to get abandon the structure and get back into their diving equipment. He’d just pulled on his own helmet when it’d all happened so fast—

“John? Johnny!”

“I’m here,” he said guiltily, realizing he’d been zoning out Gordon’s voice.

“I’m past the beams—I think I can see your foot but I don’t know for sure. Can you move it?”

“I’d…rather not chance it.”

“Okay…just—tell me if you see me. I’m going to shine a light in your direction.”

He waited patiently for any sign of the light, again fighting the urge to move his head to see it. One wrong move could ruin everything.

Because broken beams, collapsed walls and sharp shards of twisted metal—they were one thing. Certainly dangerous in their own right. But underwater cords and wires and netting? They were dangerous. Floating, twisting, almost invisible in the dark of the water—he’d been caught like a fly in a web when he tried to swim towards the one patch of light he could see amidst all the wreckage, and all attempts to extricate himself from their embrace had only drawn the one around his neck tighter and tighter—

“I see it,” he breathed, blinking the sweat out of his eyes. “I see it,” he repeated, a little louder.

“Good! I’ll move some of these and cut through the rest, John, okay?” The relief in Gordon’s voice was one shared with John. Any moment he’d be free. Nobody could move faster underwater than Gordon.

Then he felt it.

 “Gordon?” His voice was level, calm. “Stop.”

Immediately, the cord around his neck stopped moving. John swallowed, very aware of the tightness in his throat that was both internal and external. “It’s—it’s that one.”

“…It’s in a bunch with some others,” said Gordon after a moment. “…John? Nobody in a thousand years is going to be able to untangle all of that. I’m cutting through all of them. You should be able to loosen it on your end after they come loose, okay?”

John shut his eyes briefly, praying Gordon was right. “FAB, litt—”

“Wh…what’s happening?”

A new, masculine voice interrupted his reply to his brother. John had to fight against the instinct to turn his head to look for the speaker, even though it would have done no good underwater. He could feel movement in the water near to him though, and his gaze searched the dark around himself, for the first time catching sight of movement by what he’d assumed was more wreckage from the underwater structure.

“Doctor Harding?” he asked cautiously.

“Yes! Yes—I—I don’t understand—what’s…unggh…happening?”

“You were caught in the lab when the leg gave way, like we told you it would,” said Gordon, unable to help himself. “We didn’t pick up any other signs—I’m sorry. Just hold still for now, and I’ll lead you—”

“They’re dead? No…no!”

“Doctor—”

“No! No, I can’t—I can’t stay here—my oxygen…oh god, it’s almost out—”

“Doctor, stay still!” John ordered, watching as the cables started to ripple. With Gordon’s light now he could see them, like snakes writhing in the dark—

“No! I’m—I’m going to die—I—I have to get to the surface before I drown!”

“Doct—gh—” John felt the cord tighten abruptly around his neck, instantly cutting off his air. He grabbed it instinctively, trying to loosen it, trying to slip a few fingers between it and his neck, but the doctor was struggling and thrashing around and making it tighter—

His head was pounding, a loud ringing building up in the back of his skull—and even though it’d never happened before, John Tracy was suddenly overcome with the most intense feeling of terror he’d ever had in his life.

His body was jerking reflexively trying to get in the air that wouldn’t come even though he tried to stop it, the struggling only serving to make it all worse, and his hands—his hands were slowly tugging at the cord, tugging, pulling, fighting—

—and then…they weren’t.

For a moment, the darkness was lit by a few stray arcs of light from Gordon’s cutter. Then they faded into nothing, as did everything else.

Chapter Text

“Get out of here! Get back to the tunnel!”

“I’m not leaving you!”

“Gordon get out of here!”

Gordon Tracy grimaced as his brother’s lingering shout was overtaken by a slow ringing in his ears; ringing that grew in intensity as consciousness slowly returned to him, though the young man wasn’t sure when it’d left him. His waking thoughts were a jumbled mess—random flashes of a dimly lit tunnel, yellow eyes, and a flashing light all mingling together in the back of his brain. The clamor was overwhelming and confusing—and instantly quieted by the cold realization he couldn’t move his body.

His mind instantly jumped to the hydrofoil crash—the same feeling of helplessness that closed up his throat when his body refused to obey the commands he was giving it coming over him for a second time. But the crash had been years ago—what was happening now? Was he…was he paralyzed?! The terrifying thought barely had time to form when a hand suddenly wrapped around his.

 “Hey hey, easy, Gordie, you’re okay, it’s okay. Just breathe—” The hand was warm and comforting and familiar, and the panic in his chest started to fade as the voice continued to reassure him. He knew that hand. As children, it wasn’t their mother who comforted them—nor their father, both of them absent for different reasons. It had been the oldest who comforted they younger kids when they were sick, and when they were injured.

“Scott?” he asked groggily, trying and failing to open his eyes.

“Yeah, it’s me, Gord.”

“Thought…thought you’d been…”

“Shhhh. Don’t try to talk, okay? Save your energy.”

“What…what happened, Scott?” Gordon persisted, voice little more than a whisper. “Where are we?”

“…You took…you took a little hit in the explosion and we thought…we thought we lost you for a minute. But Alan found you, pulled you out of the rubble. You’re in the back of Thunderbird 2 and Virgil’s flying you to the nearest hospital and…and…well…it’ll be okay. All right?”

No, it wasn’t all right. There’d been an argument before he’d woken up here—and Gordon couldn’t remember what it’d been about exactly but he knew it’d been very important. And it had…it had something to do with the explosion—with…Scott.

“Gordon?” His brother’s quiet voice drew him out of his thoughts. “…I…I want you to know that…I’m sorry that you were hurt. I’m…I’m really sorry. I tried…” Scott’s voice broke. Something twisted painfully in Gordon’s chest at the sound. “I tried.”

“Scott—”

“No—I want you to know. And I want you to know that no matter what—you’re going to get through this. All of you will get through it, and it’ll be okay. All right? No matter what, you’re going to come through this and everything—everything will be…okay.”

The hand slipped out of his.

“Scott?” A chill went up Gordon’s spine. He tried to reach for him, finally managing to open his eyes only to have a blurred wall greet him. “…Scotty?”

“Gordon?” A surprised voice by his side had Gordon turning his head with monumental effort, finding himself staring up in bewilderment at the tearstained face of Alan. “He’s awake…John, everyone, Virgil, he’s awake!”

“Alan?” he asked hoarsely, brow wrinkling.

“Yes, it’s me,” said his brother, squeezing his hand so tightly Gordon actually winced. “You’re on the back of Thunderbird 2, and Virgil’ll be here the second he puts autopilot on and he already said you’re going to be okay just have to have the doctor check your head and your heart isn’t going to stop again, it isn’t going to—!” Alan’s babbling caught in his throat, and he threw himself at Gordon suddenly, hugging him tightly. Gordon blinked in surprise. My heart stopped? When?

“Alan…what’s going on…?”

Alan straightened up, sniffing and rubbing his eyes with one hand but not letting go of him.

“Gordon!” Virgil’s voice interrupted whatever Alan’s answer was going to be. Gordon tilted his head in time to see his older brother striding across the room to be by his side. The dark-haired man let out a sigh that, by the sounds of it, had been on his chest for days—then he sat next to him and held his other hand tightly as if he was afraid Gordon would slip away if he let go. “We’re going to be at the hospital soon—don’t worry, it’ll be okay, you weren’t hurt that badly—just—don’t—don’t try to talk too much or do anything, just lie still, okay?”

A small part of him wanted to crack a joke about how he didn’t need to move to hurt himself, they’d broken his hands already, but Gordon closed his mouth before it could slip out, and gave a small nod of affirmation before scanning the rest of the room for someone who wasn’t there.

“Virg…where’s…where’s Scott? He should…be back here…he was right there when…the b…” He trailed off when he turned back in time to see his brother’s faces, blood running cold when he finally saw the bloodstains on Virgil’s uniform.

“Gordon—” Virgil started, but then he closed his mouth, turning his head away.

Alan pulled you from the rubble.

…But who pulled you out, Scott?

“Virgil?” he whispered. “Where’s Scott?”

Chapter Text

He was literally on fire. Well, not literally, but close enough to count. The blankets covering him weren’t helping anything but it seemed each time he flung them off in effort to cool down, they somehow ended back around him, which was the most frustrating thing next to waiting outside the bathroom for his brothers to finish doing their hair. Once again he managed to wriggle his way out from underneath the mass of sheets and blankets, but just when he was free of them a hand pressed him firmly back in place, and to his dismay he could do little more than struggle weakly underneath it before the blankets were back in place. He groaned at the injustice of it all.

“Why, why?! It’s so hot here…it’s like a million degrees…!”

“You’re just sick, Alan,” said the familiar voice of his older brother, John Tracy. He turned his head, scowling at the floating head by his bedside. “You need to lie still and let the medicine do its work before you catch a chill—”

“I want to catch a chill!” Alan snapped, trying and failing to find the edge of his blanket to tear it off. It was basic logic! If he was too hot, take off the blankets, stop trying to murder him—if he was too cold, put them back on! They’d all caught the flu before, this wasn’t much different only that he couldn’t really sit up or walk or watch TV without seeing triple—stupid blanket, it kept slipping right out of his hand…might as well have been quicksand…quicksand? He shut his eyes and open them, still seeing the small mounds of glistening hot sand surrounding him. He tried to push them off and anyway, anything to free himself. “I’m going to burn up!”

“You’ll be okay. Alan, stop that—”

“Have—have to get the sand off—”

“It’s not sand, it’s a blanket.”

“Yeah right…this is—oh…John…you’re right, it is a blanket…” John said something, but Alan was through listening to him, instead renewing his efforts to pull off the blankets as the images of sand came and went. Thank goodness he hadn’t had to clean any of that up. He managed to get one layer off when they rudely were pushed back into place. He shot his brother a devastated look. “Johnnn!”

“It’s for your own good, Alan.”

“Says you…”

“John?”

John left him again as a voice called to him from the doorway, and Alan lay there panting, trying to figure out the quickest way to cool down once he escaped the room. The showers? Nah, not enough…the pool? Now there was an idea—fill it up with ice cubes—huh, what a shock that’d give Gordon…Alan chuckled at the idea. Just as well, he was one of the traitors who told Grandma he hadn’t been feeling well yesterday. Now what was he thinking about? Oh yeah...the pool. Just dive right in and just melt away in the bliss of it all…

“How is he?”

“Managed to sleep a few hours, if you believe it. Even drank some water, after I…sort of promised him I’d let him sit up if he did it. No, Scott, I didn’t let him. He probably forgot I promised, anyway. Temperature’s still too low but he still thinks he’s burning up.”

“Remind me not to ask for any favors if I get sick. Still…that medicine the doc gave doesn’t seem to be doing much.”

“Maybe it just needs time to kick in.”

“Yeah…maybe.”

“Scott, he’ll be okay. We’ve all been sick at some point.”

“Well sure, but not like this. Not for almost a week—and Doc doesn’t even know for sure what this is. And it’s Alan—kid has a habit of making things more difficult than they need to be—”

“Hey, just leave him to me. How are Gordon and Virgil, anyway? How’s Thunderbird 5? Is everything—”

“John?” Alan asked plaintively. He squirmed uncomfortably under the blankets that’d been layered back on top of him and then just lay there, too exhausted to start struggling again just yet. “Turn the radio off, it’s so annoying…I can’t even hear…hear myself think…”

“It’s just me, Alan,” called Scott’s voice.

“Scott?” Alan tried to sit up. John was back by his side in an instant to prevent him, but Alan managed to grab onto his arm and used it to prop himself up in a sitting position. He could barely make out the figure of his older brother in the doorway. “John’s trying to kill me, Scott, send for help—”

“Just—hang in there, Alan, okay?”

“Scott, no!”

His older brother, another traitor, left him. Alan groaned and let John fuss over him as he pushed him back down to the lava pit. He tossed and turned a little, scowling at nothing. “He’s a traitor…you’re all…” He trailed off, gaze falling on the window, and then his brow wrinkled. Where did the window lead? Outside. And where did outside lead…? The pool! It was all so clear to him now. They thought they were helping by trying to bake him to a crisp, huh? Wait until they saw him swimming laps outside. He started to try to push off his blankets to reach his goal, when a hand pulling them back into place reminded him of the little problem named John.

“Johnny? Get—get Scott again.”

“He’s not going to help you, Alan.”

“Just get him!” Alan urged, and after a moment’s hesitation, John stood.

“Okay. But stay still, okay? I’ll just be gone a minute.”

“Okay…okay…I’ll stay…I’m staying…I’m stay…John?” When he didn’t hear an answer, he immediately put his plan into action. First, wrestle with the thick heavy blankets—second, shove off the sheets, and everything else—then…then he laid there for a moment, panting from the exertion. He still didn’t feel cold enough. He needed to be colder—much colder. Somehow, he was able to shove himself up into a sitting position though he felt as weak as a newborn kitten—and then he braced himself to run to the window, taking in a few deep breathes—and then he was on his feet and staggering, running—

It seemed to take a lifetime—he slipped and fell to the floor a few times, but was able to get back up—and then his fingers were on the latch and he giggled triumphantly to himself as he threw the window open and started to swing a leg over the ledge, freedom just inches away—

“ALAN!”

Chapter Text

“Scott I—I don’t know if I should—”

“NNnngh…! It—it’s okay. Do it!”

“Scott—we should wait for dad—”

“Do it!”

Alan’s face was pinched and pale, but he obediently did as his older brother ordered, and pressed his weight against the makeshift lever he’d made out of the nearby rubble. Scott stifled a groan of pain with great difficulty as the beam on his leg started to shift—but just when he thought he might be able to drag his leg free, the lever cracked, and before Alan could stoop to shove in a piece of rubble to keep the beam from falling back to where it had been, the damn thing snapped in his hands. He couldn’t help the instinctive reaction to cover his ears when Scott screamed—for a moment he couldn’t even look, fearing the beam had slipped all the way, took his big brother’s leg right off under the knee—but finally he looked up, hands dropping uselessly to his sides.

Scott was lying back against the ground, panting hard, face screwed up in pain. Gradually he opened his eyes again, gaze slowly sliding over to where Alan was standing, face red from the effort not to burst into tears. For just a second, Scott wished it was one of his other brothers trapped with him instead of the kid, but the thought left his head almost as soon as it had come. He didn’t want anyone trapped in the collapsed building with him, period.

“I—I tried, Scott—I—”

“You’re okay, kid,” he said hoarsely, the effort to make his voice sound even almost more than he could do. He shut his eyes tightly and opened them again, trying to radiate the calmness of a rescuer instead of the pain of a wounded victim. “It’s okay.”

“Scott…I…” Alan scrubbed a hand quickly against his eyes. “I don’t want to try that again. Let’s just wait until dad and Virgil come. John’ll find us and he’ll tell them where we are.”

If we don’t get out of here soon, that trembling beam keeping the rest of the ceiling caving in on us will take care of us long before they do, Scott thought, but he didn’t say it aloud; some fears weren’t meant to be shared with his little brother, and that was one of them. Instead he nodded, and then opened his hand silently, an invitation for the youngest Tracy to take it. Alan needed no prompting. He moved from where he’d been standing and got to his knees beside Scott, holding his gloved hand tightly with his own. Neither of them said anything, Scott blinking slowly and looking at their surroundings for the hundredth time as he tried to think of how to free his leg. The pain was dulling his thinking abilities, though, and he found himself more staring without seeing than anything else. It didn’t help that every breath felt like a stab in the chest, but Alan had pushed off the piece of rubble that’d fallen on him, and there wasn’t anything else they could do for the broken rib. No, there wasn’t anything that could be done for Scott—but Alan…if he could just do something for his little brother…

“Scotty?”

Alan’s scared voice forced his eyes back open. He was looking at the beam that was still trembling, dust still falling from it. The low groans were only confirming his fears that they didn’t have long to go. He found his brother’s pale face in the semi-darkness and managed a smile that he hoped didn’t look like a grimace.

“I’m still here,” he whispered.

“Don’t—don’t close your eyes like that,” Alan pleaded with him. “Like you—” He turned away quickly, wiping at his eyes again with the back of a fist. Scott’s smile faded, replaced with a frown. Alan was too young for all of this. What was his father thinking planning on having Alan join them fulltime in the future? The kid was—well, still a kid. But he’d thought the same about Gordon, once upon a time. They all hardened, one way or another. Were forced to grow up faster than they should for the sake of other people’s families—

I guess the pain’s getting to me more than I thought, Scott mused. But thoughts like that weren’t going to get them out of there. And if he was stuck and Alan wasn’t—well. He knew what had to be done.

“Alan?”

The kid looked at him, blue eyes wide and frightened. Scott felt something clench in his chest at that look, and even though he hadn’t meant to, tears sprang to his own eyes. He blinked them away.

“Alan, remember what we talked about before…? About trying to get—get out?”

“But Scott, you’re still trapped—”

“I—I know. But…Johnny…he has a better chance of locking onto your position than mine. So if you get out…they could find us faster. And when Dad and Virgil come you…you can tell them where I am.”

“But—” Alan wavered, looking at the half collapsed hallway he’d been working on getting through before he’d realized Scott was pinned under the rubble. “What if—what if collapses more when I try to get out, Scott?”

“It won’t,” Scott said confidentially, though he had no idea if that was the case. Alan trusted him though, and he already looked less teary-eyed with a plan of action at hand.

“Then…then I’ll be back soon, Scott. With dad, and Virgil.” He squeezed his older brother’s hand tightly. “I promise.”

Scott smiled at him. “…I’m counting on you, Al. Give me a shout when you reach the other side.”

The kid nodded and released his hand and stood up, moving out of sight. Scott listened to the sounds of him moving the rubble, his gaze drifting back to the beam supporting everything from collapsing on them. Only because he was waiting for the sound of his brother’s voice did he manage to keep his eyes open. It could have passed twenty minutes, or twenty hours, but finally the sound he’d been waiting for reached him—

“Scott! I’m out! I’m coming back the moment I have dad, okay? I’m coming back for you!”

“Good luck kid,” he whispered. More dust was falling, the beam trembling worse than ever, and an ominous groaning had filled the air, growing loud and louder with each passing second—and then there was a second groaning, one that sounded oddly familiar. It was odd, really, because he could have sworn Thunderbird 2 sounded like that….

He didn’t have any time to muse on it, though. Consciousness refused to be held onto any longer, and his eyes slid shut as he passed out.

Chapter Text

He thought they were supposed to be safe when they weren’t out on a call. He’d never think that again. He supposed, lying there, that there some dangers, despite how many precautions they took, remained unavoidable. It couldn’t have happened in a worse place, too—any moment someone was going to find him and ask—

“Hey, Virg, what are you doing on the floor?”

Inwardly, Virgil Tracy groaned as he heard his younger brother’s voice. Alan came into view, the youngest Tracy frowning curiously at him. “You choose the weirdest places to read,” he piped. “Aren’t you still supposed to be in bed after that trouble with your back?”

“…It felt fine this morning.”

“Uh-huh…so then why are you lying here now? It’s almost lunchtime.”

Virgil blinked, his mind going blank. Then he remembered the books lying around him and he picked one up, holding it to his chest with one hand. “Uh—Dad’s books caught my eye. I thought to myself, hey, haven’t read those in a while…so…here I am.” A part of him wondered why he wasn’t asking for help up, because there was no way he could get to his feet the way it was now, but then the saner part of his brain reminded him this was Alan, the confirmed blabbermouth of the island, and if ever reached the wrong ears that Virgil had thrown out his back again by just reaching up to straighten a book on the shelf—no, he’d never live it down. Better the kid thought he was lying here intentionally, just reading. On the floor of their father’s office. Like any sane person.

But the kid didn’t seem to be buying it. He tilted his head, frown growing, and then he opened his mouth—

“Alan, everything packed?” Scott’s voice called from somewhere in the other room. Virgil prayed his older brother didn’t come looking for Alan because there was no doubt in his mind if he saw Virgil lying there some dumb story about reading on the floor wouldn’t fly.

“I’m getting around to it!”

“Around to it? I reminded you four days ago to be ready! You leave in the hour!”

“It can wait a few minutes!”

“Alan—!”

“You’d better go before he starts to pack for you,” Virgil advised.

Alan sighed and straightened up. “I guess you’re right. Bye, Virg, see you in a few months—and once I finish packing to Scott’s approval, a few more months after that, too…”

He disappeared. Virgil listened to him go, the sounds of his brothers’ bickering voices fading down one of the hallways. He sighed and shut his eyes, only to immediately open them again when he heard a familiar whoosh of a door opening, a tired sigh and then—

“Look out!”

“Oof!”

Virgil squeezed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth at the unexpected jostling, a deep throb of pain at the very base of his back almost making him cry out the many expletives he shouldn’t have known. It way too long for the waves of agony to fade, but when they finally did and his eyes reopened, he found Gordon sitting next to him, the Fish looking very rumpled and unrepentant for having tripped all over him.

“Virgil! Sheesh, can’t go anywhere without you or Scott getting underfoot,” he grumbled. “Why in the world are you lying here and not in bed?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Gord, maybe I’m laying here because I like it,” Virgil answered with a scowl, and then, because he realized he could keep it a secret no longer, sighed and quietly admitted the truth. “…I threw out my back again.”

“Threw out—again? This soon? How? Wait, don’t answer me—I think I know. You didn’t listen to the doctor—again,” Gordon said, shaking his head and tsking in a very judgmental way that immediately rubbed Virgil the wrong way.

“Save the lecture for later, okay? If you can help me up I can get back to bed before anyone notices—”

“Before anyone notices?” Gordon looked from Virgil to the empty room around him. “You mean nobody’s found you yet? How long have you been laying here?”

“Just…a…uh…” Gordon narrowed his eyes at him, and Virgil sighed. Sometimes Gordon was really good at channeling Dad and Scott. “A few…measly few hours.”

“Hours!” Gordon scowled. “How…measly?”

“Just five or six—”

“Five hours? Or six? Virgil, even I know better than to—”

“Okay, okay, I messed up! Now will you just help?”

“Help?” It was really starting to get on Virgil’s nerves the way Gordon kept echoing him, but he managed to keep silent about it. “Oh no. We warned you what would happen if you kept pushing it after doc said you needed rest for your back, but you didn’t listen. And you know the rules for not listening, big brother—” A wicked smile crept over Gordon’s face and he was shouting over his shoulder before Virgil could stop him.

“Hey, Grandma!”

“No! Gordon—!”

“Gordon, is that you? What is it? Where are you?”

Virgil groaned and closed his eyes, flinging an arm dramatically over his face.

“In here! Come look at what Virg did to himself! And you’d better bring Scott, too. Hey, John—John, this is Gordon, calling International Rescue—Virgil Tracy has fallen and he can’t get up!”

Chapter Text

John Tracy was sitting in space—well, in Thunderbird 5—at ease and perfectly content to let his mind wander over the hundreds of incoming sounds being transmitted from the various speakers of his operation center. It was peaceful, in its own way. Maybe because he was in his element, maybe because he had the world at his fingertips—maybe…maybe it was just because he’d spent so many collective years in space, it’d become natural to be surrounded by chaos.

Absentmindedly listening for key words and follow-ups from local law and emergency rescue, he found a particular signal that was too quiet to make out—leaning over and adjusting the knob, frowning in concentration as he tried to pinpoint the exact location of the signal in the hopes of boosting it, he suddenly received confirmation on another frequency and immediately took his hand away—a little too quickly, as he hadn’t noticed his hand brushing against the knob and setting the volume to max.

After dashing off a reply through channels he went to listen in to the quiet signal again—but when his eyes scanned the knob for volume he noticed it at max—before he could react the unusually powerful speakers of the operation center blared out an immense sound and he had to grab at his ears to blot it out, quickly reaching over and adjusting the sound before it could fully deafen him.

Nobody had seen it happen, but he felt himself blushing furiously all the same for making a simple mistake. Stupid thing almost came all the way loose in his hand too, and he made a mental note to have it fixed. He ran a hand down his face before trying to do anything though, trying to rid himself of the unwanted feeling of embarrassment.

“Hey, what was that?”

Alan’s voice had him whirling around immediately, the younger Tracy poking his head inside the room in confusion, looking around for the source of the loud squawk that’d greeted him.

“Nothing,” John lied easily. “Just a radio malfunction. It’s fixed.”

“Uh-huh.” Alan didn’t sound too sure but he didn’t press it because this was only his second time in space and for all he knew, it was always like that. He made his way over, looking over all the screens and half-listening to the chatter of radios. He still didn’t know how John was so—so good with them. He wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to listen to over twenty voices at once for hours at a time. “How’s that solar storm looking?”

“Shields still holding. I don’t expect—”

An alarm cut him off. Immediately John moved in front of one of the consoles, face a mask of professionalism as he started listening in to the local calls for help and alerting Scott to the possibility of their service being needed. Alan listened attentively in case he was needed. It wasn’t likely, not with Gordon and Virgil down there with Scott and John handling everything up in space. But one never knew, so he stayed nearby, monitoring the whole crisis taking place far below them alongside his older brother. His attention kept drifting, however, to this one annoying little voice that kept going quiet and then loud on one of the other consoles. After hearing it one too many times, he moved away from where John was still coordinating with Scott and listened closer to the signal coming in, reaching out to adjust the volume.

Only to have the knob come off in his hand.

It was stupid, and it could have happened to anyone—that’s what John kept telling him as he tried to fit it back in place, an ungodly sound from the speakers practically deafening them both.

“I’m sorry!” he shouted over the sound. “I didn’t mean to break it!”

“Not your fault!” John returned, trying in vain to get the stupid piece back into place. “Just one of those—”

His voice suddenly caught in his throat, his skin crawling, the static in the air so tangible he felt as if at any moment he was going to be struck by a bolt of lightning. Too late he thought to draw his hand back from the broken knob, but his fingers had only just started to leave it when—

“John! Johnny!” Alan was crouched in front of him, but John couldn’t answer him. Couldn’t even focus on him or remember how he came to be lying at a heap at the bottom of the wall across from the console, chest pounding so quickly in his chest it was jumping beats and then some.

“I’m fine,” he was quick to assure the young man, and he tried to get to his feet, only to keep slipping back as his legs refused to hold him. His whole body was shaking. No, not shaking—trembling? Convulsing? He couldn’t seem to keep it from reflexively jerking. And why was his heart still racing so badly? He reached up a trembling hand, running it down his face, feeling sick and dazed and all sorts of not okay.

“I’m going to contact Scott,” the kid said, squeezing his arm. “Just—just stay here, all right?”

“All right?” John repeated in confusion. He blinked, looking up at Alan in bewilderment. His vision was pulsing in and out—any moment it was all going to fade to white but he had to get out an important question before it all disappeared. “Who’s—who’s Scott?”

Chapter Text

“You should have given me the information when you had a chance.”

The Hood smiled coldly as he spoke, gaze on Alan. He shifted his grip on the knife he’d used to stab the youngest Tracy, eliciting a flinch from the young man who tried in vain to once more to crawl back and away, bloodied fingers not enough to stem the flow of red from his side. His shoulder hit the console behind him and he turned his head quickly, realizing too late he’d been backed into a corner that he couldn’t get out of. The kid turned his agonized gaze to the side, probably trying to make eye contact with his captured family, wanting to see them rather than the glowing eyes went the end came.

“I’m almost sorry your missing brother isn’t here to see this. Gordon was his name? But I suppose it’s hard to see when your head has been separated from your body,” the Hood said, almost conversationally. Tears glinted in the young man’s eyes, more from anger than grief. Across the room, Scott’s threats of death were muffled by the gag in his mouth, the oldest of the brothers struggling hard against the chain that bound him to the wall. John and Virgil struggling equally hard beside him. John was the first one to get his gag off, the cloth hanging around his neck as he strained against the cuffs holding his hands behind his back, face red from rarely displayed anger.

“You sick bastard! You’re going to pay for this!”

The Hood turned his chilling smile to him. “Really?” he asked almost nonchalantly. They were wishing desperately for a miracle—so badly he could almost feel it. For just a moment he savored that helplessness, wished that Jeff Tracy had been there to witness it. But he’d have more than enough pleasure revealing what had happened to his sons when next they met. He turned back to Alan, taking a step forward. “Who’s going to make me?”

“Me.”

Everyone turned as the shadow by the far wall detached itself from the rest of the darkness. He was soaked to the skin, hair sticking to his forehead, eyes burning with an intensity they had never seen before. Blood splatters covered his ragged clothing and left leg, but all in all—there was no mistaking Gordon Tracy was alive.

He was alive, and he held a gun in his hand.

“Get away from Alan,” he ordered, voice flat. The Hood hesitated, but after a moment of wavering he threw down the knife, smile of triumph rapidly fading into a sour frown as he realized he no longer held all the aces. Gordon gestured he move to the side, and he did so with great reluctance. Already Alan was breathing fast in relief, tears of joy in his eyes at seeing his brother alive, the shock almost too much for him to bear.

“Gordon—” John breathed, tears in his eyes. Beside him, Virgil and Scott were just staring, too stunned yet to realize it wasn’t a ghost before them. “You’re alive.”

“And we’re getting out of here,” Gordon promised him, though his gaze never left the Hood. “Penelope and the others are right behind me. We’re all going home. All of us.” Even as he spoke, a flash of pink appeared in the opening he’d climbed through, followed by a stout figure that was unmistakable. “There they are, M’Lady!”

Penelope immediately head towards Alan upon seeing Gordon had the Hood covered, while Parker went for the others to unbound and ungag them.

“This isn’t the end,” the Hood hissed. “Prison can’t hold me!”

Gordon smiled coldly. “It’ll never have to.”

He lifted his gun.

He’d always known he do whatever it took to keep his family safe.

Oh, they all said they would do anything, but there were some invisible lines that they couldn’t cross, morality somehow getting in the way and clouding the issue at hand. He had been like that—once. Of them all, perhaps Scott would understand the best. He’d been in the air force, trained as a pilot, underwent experiences that couldn’t help but change the man who lived through them. Gordon Tracy hadn’t been in the air force, but he’d been through something similar. Something that in some ways, had been much worse than what his brother went through—but he’d survived. He’d succeeded where others failed. And he’d been changed.

In the room, surprise was slow to give way to shock and fear. They were shouting. It seemed everyone was shouting, all at once—and Gordon could hear each of them as he pressed on the trigger. Nothing felt more real yet surreal in that moment. He could hear Alan’s desperate pants, trying to catch a breath despite the shock that had robbed him of clear speech. Parker’s surprised gasp, Penelope saying his name as she crouched beside Alan, one hand outstretched as if she could stop him at such a distance. And Virgil’s shouted “No!” followed by John’s “Dear god, don’t!” and Scott—Scott alone was silent, mouth a grim line, something dark in his gaze.

And there was the Hood. The man who had tried to destroy their family numerous times was just standing there, still half-facing him, hands clenched in useless fists, his powers already spent from his earlier tussle with the youngest Tracy. He hadn’t been expecting Gordon’s action. He really thought he’d just go back to prison this time. Thought that after everything he did, he’d have another chance to do it all over again. But Gordon was never going to give him that chance.

The Hood staggered back as the bullet caught him in the chest; his eyes flicked up, meeting Gordon’s, fear and helplessness mingling into one agonized expression before he toppled over unmoving.

Gordon would remember that look forever.

Chapter Text

He was walking cautiously down the dark steps, keeping his light steady as he moved from one floor to the next, his only light coming from the flashlight in hand. He must’ve forgotten to charge it because it kept going dim, and seemed to be getting fainter the further down he went.

 “Hello?” he called again as he had been doing for what felt like hours, only to receive no reply. His stomach twisted uneasily, some small voice in the back of his head telling him he should go back and wait for backup before trying to search the building for survivors alone. But what would Alan Tracy’s brothers say if he turned back from a potential rescue, if he told them he’d waited because he got some feeling in his gut? Probably remind him it was his duty to go wherever a rescue took him. And knowing them, make fun of him for being afraid of going through the dark alone.

But he wasn’t afraid, he reminded himself as he shifted his grip on his light. He was just being wary. Weren’t they always telling him he had to think before he leapt? He snorted. “Someone needs to remind Scott about that old saying…”

Comforted by the sound of his own voice, he continued down the steps, gladdened to see the bottom of the stairs finally coming into view. Soon he’d have searched the whole building and if it was empty he could go back out into the light…

“Hel—”

The pipe unexpected smashed into his legs, making him topple the remaining distance, flashlight skidding from his grasp. As Alan staggered to his feet, the shadowy man pulled it back and leaving the young man no time to react, lashed out with another blow. Too late he caught a dazed glimpse of metal—and then it was colliding with the side of his head, his body crumpling like a piece of wet paper. The pain in his skull nothing compared to the sudden, overwhelming numbness he felt all across his whole body. Blood and saliva mingled in his mouth and dripped to the concrete beneath him without his even being aware of it; but he had to get up, he had to get up before the pair of shoes he could see striding across the floor reached him, but it was too late, the stranger upon him, gold eyes flashing—

“AHHH!”

Alan woke with a shout, chest heaving and heartbeat racing so quickly it was all he could hear for a minute. For a while he just sat there in the lounge chair he’d fallen asleep in, not sure where he was or what he was doing, but then he started to recognize his surroundings as the deserted sitting area by the swimming pool, and slumped back into his seat, unconsciously patting himself down as he double checked he had not been knocked around. The lights were off around him, but the moon and stars provided more than enough lighting for him to see he was alone, no figures with gold eyes standing over him.

He thought for whatever reason it’d been the closeness of his room that brought the nightmares on. He’d experimented trying to sleep in his father’s office, too, but he’d found no relief from the exhaustion or the visions that’d plagued him since the Hood first managed to get close to them—since the bastard managed to get close to him. He slumped back, pressing the palm of his hands hard into his eyes, willing the tiredness to go away so he never had to sleep again or for his dreams to just stop. It’d only been four days since the nightmares became worse, but it felt like four weeks, four months, four years—

He just really, really wanted to sleep without seeing that smirking face…!

Abruptly he stood and started to walk the path that led down to the beach. His bare feet sank into the sand, and more than once he trod accidentally on a shell that had no business being there. But every sensation was a welcome distraction because so long as he could stay awake, the dreams had to go away and maybe if he kept it up long enough he could maybe fall into a dreamless stupor that’d be basically as good as sleep.

On the beach it was quiet. The waves barely seemed to be moving, actually, and he watched them crawl sluggishly up the sand. A creeping sensation ran up his spine as he watched it, and he frowned slowly, wondering why, only for his eye to catch sight of a grey shadow falling across the sand. He whirled around, in time to see the gold eyes, the mouth open in a laugh as the madman gestured to the villa behind them, Alan’s eyes growing wide when he saw the missile heading straight for his sleeping family—

“NO!”

“Alan—”

“No, stop, have to warn them—” Alan twisted and turned, the images of the wreckage flashing through his head, the images of body bags lined up in the sand burning themselves into his eyes— “No…no! No!”

“Alan!”

Alan jolted back to reality at the shout, blinking rapidly and finding himself in the same lounge chair he’d fallen asleep in the first time. Perspiration was streaming down his face, blurring his vision, but not so much that he couldn’t see Virgil was sitting beside him in his pajamas and robe, his older brother’s dark gaze concerned. He reached up a trembling hand and brushed the sweat away, telling himself that was what the dampness in his eyes was.

“You were having a nightmare,” Virgil said soothingly. “It’s okay now—” He started to put an arm on his shoulders, but Alan twisted away from him, too ashamed and embarrassed to look his brother in the eye. Virgil frowned worriedly, but withdrew his arm. “Are you okay?” he asked quietly. “Alan?” What were you even doing up, Alan wanted to shout at him. Why did any of you have to see me like this? “Did you want to talk about it or—”

“No,” Alan was quick to say. He sounded strained. “I’m sorry I woke you up but I’m fine now, okay? I’m—I’m all right.”

Virgil hesitated, brow wrinkling. “Alan—”

“I’m fine!” Alan snapped, glaring at him, but he immediately regretted his sharp tone when he saw the surprise flash through his older brother’s eyes. Annoyance quickly turned contrite. “I mean—it…it was nothing. Just one of those dreams. Just—go back to sleep, Virg. I’m fine.”

Not giving his brother a chance to say anything he turned and quickly went up the steps to the house, practically slamming the door behind him. He ran a hand down his face, the mask crumbling without his brother to see it.

“I’ll be fine,” he whispered in the dark, brushing away the tears threatening to fall. “I have to be.”

Chapter Text

The tall man strode down the hallway, nodding hello to the nurses who’d become familiar faces, knowing where he was going without being led even though it had been some time since he’d last been in the building physically. A petite nurse in a crisp white uniform met him at the door to the room, just leaving with a tray in hand.

“How is he today, nurse?” he asked.

“He’s doing better today, Mr. Tracy,” said the nurse. She lifted the tray a little. “He even managed to eat part of his breakfast.”

John looked over the nurse’s shoulder into the room as she spoke. Scott was sitting near the window, but he wasn’t looking outside. His gaze was locked on the muted TV across the room, his head propped up in one thin hand, a distant expression on his face as he watched the advertisement for roof cleaning. In his other hand he was holding the book Alan had left for him, finger still marking his place on the page even though he no longer paid any attention to it.

It didn’t escape John’s attention how painfully thin his brother had become despite the doctor’s care. The hospital robe was hanging over his shoulders, dwarfing what should have been a large, powerful frame. He never had regained the muscle he’d lost the first week following his illness, back when they thought it was just pneumonia…Virgil and Grandma had both mentioned it to him, told him he shouldn’t expect to see the same brother he’d left behind four months ago when he took his return on rotation, but the change was still shocking. Only Alan had painted a realistic picture when he described the unsettling gauntness that’d come over his Scott’s face, the way bones had started to peek through his shirt and the unnatural grey tinge creeping into his skin…

“Mr. Tracy?” the nurse said, and he blinked guiltily, mumbling an apology. She seemed to understand though, smiling sadly at him before continuing down the hall. He slowly entered the room, closing the door behind him. He walked across the room, Scott not noticing him until he was mere feet from him. He looked up in surprise when the shadow fell over him.

“Johnny!” he croaked, surprise flashing through overly bright eyes. He made as if to stand, but John immediately stopped him by clasping one of his hands instead in a handshake, patting his shoulder with his other hand, aware of how fragile he felt, and how weak the grip the was. “I didn’t think you’d be back down for another week—how have you been? Is everything okay?”

“It’s all right. Surprisingly dull for this time of year, that’s all,” John lied. I wanted to see you for myself after everything they told me. It was surprising Scott looked so cheerful actually, given what the doctors had told them. What John had been told just two days ago. “Thought I’d let Alan get in some more practice—”

“He could sure use it. But why? How has he been handling Thunderbird 1?” Scott asked immediately, shifting from brother to commander in less than a second. “Virgil mentioned he’s been rushing in without taking the time to look over the scene. He needs to remember to follow the procedures. They exist for a reason. And don’t forget to make him listen! Don’t be afraid to threaten him with remedial courses, because if needs them—”

“Alan’ll be okay,” John interrupted, squeezing Scott’s hand a little before releasing it to take the chair opposite of him. He knew if he let him run on about Alan, that was all they’d talk about, but Grandma and Virgil had called him down for a reason. Scott hadn’t opened up to them after getting the news. He’d shut them down immediately when they tried, but John had always been candid, so he jumped right into it. “How are you doing, Scott?”

Scott’s features flickered, then evened out as he looked away and out of the window. “I could do without the hospital setting,” he said, gesturing around the room. “I can’t wait until I can sleep in my own bed again.”

“Scott—”

“And the villa! I miss having my own place to walk around where I can’t bump into strangers, where I can go on a run and not have a bunch of nurses and doctors in white coats trying to follow me—”

“Sco—”

“And when I get back to Thunderbird 1, there’d better not be any dents or scratches and I swear if Alan’s been eating chips in there again—”

“Scott, the doctor—”

Scott suddenly turned to him, gaze fierce.

“Stop it!”

“Stop what?” his brother asked in surprise.

“Stop trying to talk about! I don’t want to talk about it. Who cares what the doctor said? They don’t know everything, all right? It’s going to be okay and I’m going to be okay!”

He stood up suddenly, his book falling off his lap and landing with a dull thud on the floor. Both of them looked down at it automatically.

“I’ll get it—” John started.

“No! I can get it.” Scott started to reach down a hand but then stopped, face rapidly paling, his knees suddenly wobbling. John immediately stood up and stepped forward to catch him before he fell but Scott shoved him away, inadvertently making himself fall hard to his knees when he pushed away his only support. John tried to reach down to see if he was okay but Scott batted his hands away again.

“No! Stop! I—I don’t need help!” he said hoarsely, not looking up at him. He tried to brace both hands against the ground, as if he was going to push himself up, but his arms lacked the strength, and after a moment or two of struggling very hard to push himself up, he suddenly sank back down to his knees, breath suddenly caught in his throat, one hand reaching up to cover his face.

John straightened slowly, clenching his jaw helplessly as his hands returned to his sides. He could hear Scott struggling to compose himself, and he wanted to say something, anything if it could help—but there was nothing.

For the first time in his life, John didn’t know what to say to make the situation better.

Scott slowly wiped his face and ran a hand through his hair. He didn’t break down in tears. He didn’t shout, he didn’t scream, he didn’t slam his ineffectual fists into the ground—he didn’t do anything.

 Instead, he slowly reached down, picking up the book, fingers gripping the cover tightly. Then he reached for the chair he’d been sitting in, grasping the wooden seat, using one arm to pull himself up, and one to push off the ground. He managed to get off his knees, and after an agonizing moment of struggling, arms and legs trembling, he managed to seat himself in the chair once more.

After taking a moment to catch his breath, he finally looked up, meeting John’s gaze.

His eyes were damp, but no tears fell. His expressionless face cracked momentarily before evening out again, mouth wobbling into a smile that didn’t meet his eyes.

“See?” he said. “I’m okay.”

Chapter Text

“—did I mention I was right?”

“…just about a hundred times…”

“I was right!”

“Yes, yes you were.”

“Hey, that feels good, doesn’t it? I was right. Is this how you usually feel, Scott?”

“Enough!” Scott stopped momentarily on the sidewalk to throw an exasperated look at his brother, who was still beaming at him as if he hadn’t just tricked him into liking one of his stupid plays. The music from the next one was still spilling out onto the street from the slow-closing door of the theater, but gradually it faded away as the doors slid shut, leaving them alone in the parking lot. He shoved his hands into the pockets of the suit he rarely wore, not caring anymore if it left wrinkles. “Fine, I admit! I liked it. I thought it was—good.”

“And?” Virgil pressed, still smiling at him. Scott scowled.

“And…I liked the music. And the singing. And…and the costumes. Okay? There! I said it!” He started towards their car, Virgil falling into step alongside him.

“Even though it was just another one of those “dumb Broadway plays”?”

“Yes! Even though it was just a dumb play.”

“Ha! I knew you’d like one if I you gave it a chance. Just wait until I tell the others—”

“Hey, no! Don’t you dare tell them that—”

They were both so caught up in the argument neither one was paying attention to the dark car parked at the mouth of the alley by the parking lot. One moment Virgil was opening his mouth to poke fun at his already embarrassed brother—the next both of them were turning their heads at the screech of wheels and then—

Virgil remembered being tossed like a ragdoll, the whole world suddenly a blur of clouds and cement and brick—buildings and taillights revolving in his vision—then there was the distinct crashing of his whole body into a thick windshield, his elbow and neck smashing hard into the unforgiving material, blood filling his mouth—

…Then there was darkness, brief and suffocating and as he struggled to bring himself back to consciousness, hot liquid dripping in the back of his throat. He was lying on his back, facing the sky, and only with great effort did he manage to twist his head to the side to rest on hot tarmac, blood and spit dripping out of the side of his mouth. His heart was pounding so hard and fast it felt like the only real thing grounding him to what was happening; but slowly each gasping breath that accompanied his rapid heartbeat became painful and tight, a throbbing pain building up in his lower right ribcage. He tried to move an arm, just to see if he could, but his fingers twitched and refused to move. He licked his lips and swallowed, trying to clear his throat enough to call out to the other man who’d been standing beside him when the car struck.

“Sc—Scott,” he whispered, voice a mere whisper. He tried again. “Scott!”

The lack of a response terrified him.

Then he heard the rumble of a car engine. He began to feel the ground vibrating beneath him, and he tried desperate to get up into a sitting position, managing to do little more than twist his head the other way, only to freeze when his gaze fell on a dark-haired figure sprawled on the street a few feet away. “Scott…no…Scott!”

Only when he heard a low groan slip out between the other man’s lips did his heart begin to beat again, and he tried to move an arm across the cement to begin crawling towards him, but again his body was working against him, each breath getting harder and harder to force through his lungs, but he struggled regardless, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes as he fought through the pain to drag himself towards his brother.

Scott slowly lifted his head as he heard the pained panting, dazed vision locked on Virgil’s face. Blood was streaming down the side of his pale face, dark and thick—the sight of it made Virgil feel sick to his stomach.

“Virg…?” Scott tried to say, just as headlights fell on them. He managed to lift an arm to block the glare, but Virgil had to blink and half turn his head away. They could both hear the car approaching, feel the ground shaking as the vehicle sped up—and suddenly it hit Virgil that the driver wasn’t going to stop, they were going to keep going until they ran them over a second time—

“Scott—get out of here—get out!” He wheezed. “Get up! Go! No!”

The idiot—he managed to get to his feet, and was staggering towards Virgil as the rumble of the engine grew louder—Virgil stared at him, unable to tear his gaze away, knowing what was coming, unable to lift a finger to prevent it as his brother reached for him—

“Scott!”

Dust was flung up into the air around them, lights growing stronger—

But just when it seemed as if the car must hit him, Scott flinging up an arm to block the glare on his face—there was the squeal of brakes and the vehicle came to a halt. Virgil was panting so hard it was making his head swim, the sudden relief that the driver had stopped overwhelming—

Then there was the slamming of a car door.

He had no time to question what was about to happen—shadows were about them, and when he tried to look at them he was blinded by the headlights of the car, but their aim was suddenly and terrible obvious when one grabbed onto Scott’s arm and wrenched it behind his back. A shout of pain escaped his brother and Virgil was immediately struggling harder than ever before to get up, his arms finally doing as he asked, but to his shock, his legs refused to respond—refused to even be felt.

Another yelp of pain tore his attention away from his legs, gaze falling on Scott’s pale face, blood dripping down his brother’s nose as he finally gave up struggling against the men holding him—Virgil’s whole being was filled with rage at the sight of it, his own wounds immediately forgotten.

“Get off him!” He shouted. “Let him g—!”

A boot collided with his side. He thought he heard someone scream—it couldn’t have been him because for just a second he’d left his body, vision completely white—but then it all started to fade back into place, his face pressed against the cement as he gasped, whole body trembling, spasms in his ribcage wracking his body. A hand grabbed onto his arm, and he immediately tensed for a continuation of the pain—

“Leave him alone!” He suddenly heard Scott demanding, then pleading. “You have me—I won’t try to escape. Just let him—”

Then there was a sickening thud and he couldn’t hear his brother’s voice—

“Scott…!” he gasped.

“What do we do with him?” a voice demanded somewhere above Virgil.

“Do what he said. Leave him. The Hood only asked for one.”

Then they were moving, the slamming of car doors filling Virgil’s ears. He tried to lift his head, tried to make his body do what it’d refused to do for the last few, terrible minutes—but his outstretched fingers caught only the dust as the car backed up, and drove away, leaving him alone in an empty parking lot.

Chapter Text

“—and Alan’ll be there soon and Virgil and Brains are still tracking your trajectory…John, you still with us?”

The staticky voice was what drew John back to the present. He’d been drifting for a moment, gaze blurred over, but at the sound of his brother’s voice, he shook his head and rubbed his eyes, bringing himself back to what he’d been doing. Which was—

“I’m hanging on,” he said. He heard the breath of relief on the other end. “Just trying to concentrate…”

“Sorry. Guess I’m not used to sitting these out or being in Scott’s place…just—stay calm. Stay calm? Forget I just told you to do that. Not that I’m telling you not to be calm but I mean—”

Despite the circumstances, John smiled wiped away the sweat gathering on his forehead. It was surprising how quickly the heat could start to build up when main life support failed, but at least he could still take in a breath without feeling like he was in an air fryer thanks to the auxiliary. Nearby, his helmet went floating unused along with the rest of the debris, ruined by the large crack and splatter of blood coating the inside. If it came down to it, he’d put it on, but until then—he’d chance the air as it was.

“Gordon, it’s okay,” he said, using his big-brother voice instead of his rescuer voice. He’d found out a long time ago his brothers tended to respond better to the former rather than the latter. “Just take a deep breath and tell me how far they are.” He eyed the gauges as he spoke, hoping the answer was one that could make him less worried about the steady drain on power. Seven percent…that wasn’t going to buy him much time.

“Still—fifteen minutes out.”

Fifteen minutes…

John checked the power level, heart dropping when he saw it was already down to five percent. His hands flew over the controls, trying to figure out what secondary systems he could turn off to conserve what little juice Thunderbird 5 had left. But there was very little he could do now that he hadn’t already done when the station was first hit. His vision blurred again and he had to shake his head again to make the feeling of lightheadedness go away—he knew it wasn’t medically advised to knock the non-bleeding side of his temple with the palm of his hand, but he did it a few times anyway, and it seemed to help.

“How far—how far are they now?” he asked.

“We’re still about thirteen minutes,” answered a voice he recognized as Scott. “How are you holding up, John?”

“At the risk of jinxing myself, I’m okay so far. I hit my head when it first hit so I had to take my helmet off—” John stopped, a sense of déjà vu coming over him. “…But I told you that already, didn’t I?”

“So long as you can keep telling me you’re okay I’ll be happy,” said Scott firmly. “How much power do you have left?”

“It’s on its way out.” He paused, and then added somberly, “soon it won’t be able to power auxiliary life support.”

“…We’ll get there long before that happens,” his older brother assured him, forgetting John too was a rescuer and he knew a white lie when he heard one. “Did you manage to repair the port so we can connect when we get there?”

Now the toolkit floating nearby made more sense. John started to twist to look over his shoulder to see if he’d done any work, unable to remember if he had, but as he started to move, something twinged in his neck and he grimaced, lifting a hand to it, his trembling glove coming away with blood. He stared at it, mesmerized by the way it glinted in the emergency lighting.

“Johnny, you there?”

He blinked a few times, shaking his head again. “I’m—I’m here. No, it’s not fixed. I’m getting on it now.” He grabbed the toolkit and pushed away from the console, going towards the other side of the station, avoiding as much of the debris and rubble as he could. The air was getting hotter and his chest felt tight, but when he reached up to adjust the helmet he wasn’t wearing the radio suddenly squawked, the voices growing tinnier and more distant as power started to reach critical failure.

“John! Come in!”

“What is it, Gordon?” he heard Scott ask.
“I’m registering another meteor heading towards Thunderbird 5! John!”

John didn’t answer, something catching his attention—movement through one of the viewports. Something large, and fast, growing larger with each passing second.

“John!”

“I—I have to fix the port,” he said slowly, unable to tear his gaze off the object coming ever closer. It had to be hundreds of feet away, now tens of feet away—a curious tightness that had nothing to do with the bad air made it harder to speak, and he could feel his pulse racing. “It’s—it’s not fixed yet—”

“Forget it! Get your helmet on. It won’t hold for long but maybe it won’t have to—”

“It’s damaged—” John started to answer dully, but Scott cut him off, voice tight and scared.

“You get your helmet back on, John! Now!”

It was the tone in Scott’s voice that brought him back to the present. Shaking his head, some of the wooziness fading, John let go of the toolkit and pushed himself back towards his damaged helmet, catching it and pulling it down over his head just as the light from a distant sun was blotted out by the dark mass hurtling into the viewport—

Chapter Text

His heart was pounding so quickly in his chest it was making him feel sick, a ludicrous thought that maybe the organ would just explode going through his head before logic dismissed the concern. But the pounding remained, and it took a good minute of just remembering to breathe—in, out, in out—before it finally started to slow to the point that he trusted himself to pick up the knife again. But even as he started to bring it closer to the red, enflamed flesh where the bullet had gone in, he could feel the bile rising up in the back of his throat and he suddenly he knew he couldn’t possibly do it—

The knife dropped back into the sand and he cursed his inability to just get it over with, one hand pressed tightly against the top of his leg, just above where the bullet had gone into his thigh while his other hand searched for the lighter he’d been using to sanitize the blade so he could start it all over again. He found the plastic case after a few seconds of searching, and started to click the lighter, trying to get a flame, but this time there were only ineffectual little sparks, no matter how many times he clicked the button. The anger and pain got the best of him, and his fingers curled around the useless device, preparing to throw it as far as he could down the beach—

“Gordon?”

He stopped midway through the action, turning his head guiltily to see a familiar blonde coming towards him. The relief at her distraction was momentary, fading the instant his gaze slipped from her concerned gaze to the deep bruise on her cheek. He turned away angrily, throwing the lighter away, surreptitiously covering the bullet hole with his torn up pant leg and the shirt that’d been used as a bandage.

“I—I told you, I’ll do this—myself,” he said through gritted teeth.

“And I told you I’d help,” she said firmly, not put off at all by his reaction. She knelt down beside him, and he turned his head so he didn’t have to look at her, or the bruise that he should have prevented.

“None of this is your fault, Gordon,” she said quietly. “You don’t have to suffer alone.”

“Never—never said it was my fault, even though…” Even though it was. If he’d been faster at stopping the hijackers, if he’d somehow gotten hold of the gun, if he’d known from the start those men were up to no good, that they had only been pretending to need rescuing—

“If we’d known all that, then we wouldn’t be here, trapped on this island, alone,” Lady Penelope finished, and he looked at her in surprise. She smiled sadly. “I’ve been thinking the same thing.”

“Not your fault,” he said at once. “I should’ve—”

“No,” she interrupted flatly. “I won’t hear it. We were both there. But it wasn’t your fault. And—” She forestalled any argument with a raised hand, “It wasn’t mine. And unless Parker suddenly decided to try his hand at hijacking—and he’d better not’ve—it wasn’t his, either. And now that we have that settled…give me the knife, and let me help you.”

“…No.”

“Gordon, please—”

“It’s—bad,” he said slowly, meeting her gaze, looking from eye to eye. “I don’t—I don’t want you to see it.”

“…How bad is it?”

He frowned, but then slowly shifted aside the torn cloth. Her gaze went down, and she stared for a long moment in silence before looking up at him, expression suddenly neutral.

“You’ve been hiding this for three days?”

“I thought—I thought we’d get rescued, first day,” he said. “And then—second day—I thought…”

“…You thought they’d be here.”

And why his brothers still had yet to make an appearance, he didn’t know. An evil little voice in the back of his head told him it was because the hijackers had found the island, found Parker still stowing away on the ship, and ambushed his brothers just as they’d done him—but he shook the thought away, refusing to let it get hold in his head. They weren’t there because—because there were hundreds of little islands in the middle of nowhere. The rescue sign made of seaweed and rocks wasn’t exactly the usual communication they used to initiate a rescue, so of course it was taking them time to find them—but they would come, they would, and Parker would be with them, unhurt, and then—then Gordon’d be okay, and the wound in his leg would finally stop burning, and aching, and making him feel sick and feverish and like his heart was going to explode right out of his chest—

Her hand found his, and he looked up at her again. Without her needing to say a word, he finally nodded, and she took the knife from him.

“It might help if you bite down on something,” she suggested grimly as she readied the blade, and he cast a blurry eye on his surroundings, picking up a serviceable looking stick. It tasted strongly of sand and dirt, but it’d do, and he gave her a short nod and closed his eyes as he braced himself, determined not to cry out or faint.

The first time he’d cut himself, it’d been on a kitchen knife when he tried, rather foolishly, to cut an apple in half in his palm. The blade had slipped, and the next thing he knew his palm was slick was red, flesh throbbing, and he’d screamed for Scott—

It was safe to say the knife in his leg hurt much worse than that day.

The scream tore itself from his throat, muffled by the stick clenched tightly in his teeth, and he despite his original efforts to stay still now he was writhing and twisting, trying to get his leg away from the hot poker being shoved into his leg, mind forgetting where he was or why the pain was there, knowing only that it was agonizing and ithurtohgodithurtpleaseScottDadMompleaseplease—

Then the knife was retracted, and he gasped, shuddering and blinking away the tears filling his eyes, now lying instead of sitting, the world pulsing rapidly along the edges, the sound of his thudding heart filling his ears. Someone was calling his name, but he couldn’t respond; his only consolation before the world started to blacken in nothing was that his last vision of the world had been a pair of blue eyes.

Chapter Text

“We aren’t finished, Alan!”

“Oh, we’re finished—we’re more than finished!”

He could hear his brother calling after him. Alan kept walking away from him though, under the illusion that maybe if he just walked far enough, Scott would finally get the hint and quit the argument, even though the confrontation had followed him all the way from his bedroom to the beach and showed no signs of stopping now. Even as he stumbled across the sand, clutching tightly to the source of their argument he could hear Scott running to catch up, refusing to let sleeping dogs lie.

“Look at yourself, Alan! You can’t go on like this! If you don’t want the others to know, I promise I won’t tell them, but you can’t hide it forever and I—” He finally paused as Alan came to a halt, his escape cut off by the ocean. “I’m worried about you! I’m worried about—”

“About what?” Alan challenged, not turning around to face him. He raised the object to his lips, then flung it to the ground in disgust when he found it was empty, the empty bottle reflecting in the moonlight. “About that? It’s too late for that!”

“I’ll do whatever I can to help you—I’ll do anything—”

“You can’t do anything!” Alan shouted. “I don’t want your help I don’t want you here I don’t—I don’t…”

He broke off with a choked noise, standing there with his shoulders quivering, but then he remembered the bottle he’d snatched from his brother earlier was still in his pocket and he pulled it out, cursing the fact it wasn’t as full as it had been that morning. His fingers were shaking so badly he could barely untwist the top, but somehow he managed, and he started to take a drink when he caught sight of his trembling fingers. For a moment he stood there, mesmerized. Then his gaze slipped from the fingers to his wrist, bruises and bandaged from the rescue that morning, and he went from befuddled to feeling sick, and not because of the alcohol.

“Why?” he mumbled. “Why would you ever want to help me…?”

“We’re brothers, Al. I’d do anything for you.” Alan tensed as he felt the hand touch his shoulder. He tried to make himself believe it was Scott’s hand trembling on his shoulder, and not him. “Come on, Alan, help me. I don’t—I don’t know what’s happening—but whatever it is—let me help—”

Alan brushed away the tears that insisted on springing to his eyes. “Scotty, stop—” He moved away, unable to stand their proximity, and went further down the beach, only to stagger to a halt feeling weak and lightheaded as the drunkenness he’d been chasing finally hit him. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to blot out the sound of the breakers, of the young voices trying to start up again in his ears—and especially the hated softness in Scott’s voice as he called after him, asking him to come back. He should have been ranting and screaming at him. How could he stand there and offer to help when he looked at Alan and saw—saw a failure? Something pitiable.

The youngest Tracy took a drink, and then another, refusing to look at Scott to see the shame and disgust he knew would be in his brother’s eyes—feelings he knew would be shared in John’s gaze, Virgil’s, Gordon’s, Grandma’s—Dad’s. It seemed to him they were all on that beach right then, standing there, watching him. And there were other figures too, all of them crowded around him, dotting the beach as far as the eye could see—men, women—children, all looking at him, refusing to go away no matter how much he drank.

“Please,” he whispered shakily. “Please, just leave me alone. I—I’m not worth it.”

“Not worth…?” Scott’s voice trailed off. Before Alan knew it, his oldest brother was standing in front of him, hands on his shoulders, forcing Alan to finally look him in the eye, and forcing the shadows to dissipate. And to his surprise when he finally looked at Scot—finally just looked at him, he was met only with compassion. “You’ll always be worth it to me,” Scott said firmly. “What in the world could ever make you think otherwise?”

“Because I…” Alan’s breath caught. He could feel the words choking him, the admission he’d been keeping contained since that morning demanding to be shared. And standing there alone with Scott on the dark beach, it finally slipped out. “I couldn’t…save them.”

Immediate understanding came to his brother’s eyes, the source of their argument finally revealed. “…Alan…”

“Today—today they were kids, Scott,” he whispered. The bottle he was holding was shaking so terribly in his grasp he feared it’d shatter in his hand, but this time, when Scott reached for it, he let him take it. He sank down slowly into the sand, and after a moment, Scott sat beside him, their shoulders pressed against each other.

“This time—this time they were just kids and the whole time I kept promising them we were going to get them out, that I was going to get them out but then they just—they just stopped talking to me and…I knew…I didn’t want to know even when you and John told me, but I knew. After so many times—you—you start to get a feeling, in your gut. You know? But this time—I let myself believe I could do it. I told them I could do it. I told them they’d go home—and—and—I made that promise before, even though we aren’t supposed to because I thought—I thought I could do it. I told them.” Alan’s voice broke, and he turned to Scott with tears running down his cheeks. “But I couldn’t do it. And they were kids. Just kids.”

Scott looked back at him, silent for just a moment before he finally reached an arm up to tug Alan closer into a hug. His little brother sank against his chest, the eventual sobs that escaped him muffled by his shirt.

“Scott I don’t want to do this anymore. I don’t. I don’t…”

“I know, Al, I know,” Scott said softly, rubbing his brother’s back. He stared out at the ocean, blinking back the tears in his eyes as his mind slipped unbidden back to that morning, when they’d first heard the call come in. What he wouldn’t give to have had Alan never hear it.

Or the hundreds before it.

“…I don’t think I do, either.”

Chapter Text

“No…not this…”

The words tumbled out of his mouth without his even realizing it when they first put the cloth on his head. It was still damp from the time before, and when it was lowered against his cheeks and mouth the same terror rose up inside of him. A gush of cold water ran down his face, choking him, panic momentarily seizing him as he coughed and sputtered, fighting to open his eyes and sit upright, the binds on his wrists and neck preventing him from moving, though he fought hard enough the shackles were beginning to cut deep into his skin, drawing puddles of blood around him. The stream of water was unending—and he continued to gasp and choke under the cloth on his face, feeling the liquid running over his skin like he was deep in the middle of a sea, drowning—

And then it ended, and he was gagging and throwing up, water pulsing out of his mouth as he tried to get in air and only threw up more of the hated liquid instead. His lungs were burning now, and with each breath he could taste the pain as if it was a fresh, as if they had not been doing it to him for days—

A hand reached out and brushed the cloth off his face as he sobbed for breath, slicking back the hair that clung to his damp forehead. The light in the room blinded him, but he tried to see anyway, to see who was there, hoping, as he dared to hope each time they removed the blindfold that he might see one of his brothers come to rescue him—

But it was the man again, the same thin-faced man with the impeccable clothes and the camera, looking at him carefully as if he were admiring his handiwork.

Scott Tracy hated him with every fibre of his being. But in that moment, the threat of continued torture kept him silent when before curses had slipped freely from his mouth, his eyes turning away from the man and to the side. It had been a long time since he’d talked back…a long time since he’d been able to look into the camera and tell his family he was still fighting back.

“That’s enough for now,” said the man, finally stepping away from him. “This’ll make International Rescue reconsider our…proposition. Take him to his cell.”

It was a blur as they released him from the shackles; and it remained that way until he realized they were almost to his cell, two of his captors holding onto him as he half-stumbled between them. He knew from experience his only chance to escape lay when one of the men released his arm long enough to unlock the cell, but when the opportunity came he was too dazed to react, and before he knew it he was being shoved unceremoniously into the small space, the door clanging shut behind him.

As terrible as the other parts of this dungeon had been, the moment the lock ground into place, a cold panic rose inside him. The darkness—the dampness—the lack of air—the tightening of the box as it closed in around him, threatening to squeeze the life out of him—

He whirled around with a strangled sob, fingers prying at the edge where the metal door met the wall, his breath ragged as he struggled frantically to free himself. How long he fought, he didn’t know—time had long ago lost its meaning, and it may have been seconds or hours he clawed at the door, but eventually, panting from exertion, he fell back, his gaze finally moving from the immoveable door to his hands.

Scott slowly turned them over, seeing bloodied fingers and torn fingernails in the semidarkness. Unconsciously he staggered back a step and then another, still staring at his trembling hands, stopping only when his bare back struck the cold wall behind him. He slid down against it, pulling his legs close to his body, arms wrapping around his torso in a vain effort to make himself as small as possible. For a minute, all he did was sit there in silence. Then the oppressiveness grew too loud, his heart pounding too loudly, the walls too close and growing every closer—

The scream tore itself from his throat, no words forming in the mad sound—but it was the only thing that could cut the silence surrounding him, gripping him in its hand as it waited for him to quiet forever—

Abruptly he clasped a hand to his mouth, stifling the noise. He would not let madness take him.

Get control of yourself, he repeated over and over again in his head, even as unshed tears sprang to his eyes. Don’t let them win, Scott. Don’t let them win.

His breath eventually steadied, and he found himself simply staring at the door where he’d been trying to free himself, eyes locked on the small prints of blood staining the wall. He tried to focus on it, for lack of anything else to stare at. Because if he closed his eyes, his captors would be back to wake him up. They had to be watching him somehow to know when he woke and when he slept, though he had searched the entire space in search of their cameras or spy hole to no avail. But it didn’t matter how they watched him. All he knew was that every time he tried to rest his eyes, tried to take just—one—moment—to recover himself—they were back, waiting, and if he slipped…

His mind drifted from the consequences of slipping, as it had started to do in recent days, trying to find something comforting to hold onto before everything became too much. His mind went first to his brothers, then to his father, his grandmother, his mother, their friends…but especially to his brothers.

He missed the calm sound of John’s voice, their late talks in the night when Scott was too awake to sleep and the Spaceman was too tired to do the same. He missed the sound of Virgil composing his pieces on the piano, deft fingers turning stray notes into something magical. And Gordon—the two of them, playing chess, sometimes down in the main room, sometimes upstairs if they needed to get away from the rest of the family…and Alan. What he wouldn’t give to be challenging his little brother to race, both of them tearing down the beach as the others cheered them on, only throwing a friendly jab at their competitor when there was no other recourse—

He missed it. He missed them, the villa, the beach, the wind—the wind! How much he missed that especially. One night his captors had let him outside, just for a moment, but he’d been too disoriented to even register the stars in the sky. He almost cried tears of relief at being free from his cell and the…box, if even for a short while, and if he had not been so weak he would have tried to run for freedom.

But the moment was snatched from him as soon as it had come—they had gone outside only for his captor to film another video to send to IR, and before long he was back in the cell, the sun and stars barred from him. And still, there’d been no words from the guards at any attempts to free him, no word at all that IR had even received the videos that bastard had been filming since Scott’s capture.

His eyes blurred, but he choked back the sob threatening to escape him. He wiped his face off with a grimy hand, keeping his eyes open, keeping them clear of the tears that kept blinding him. He had to keep his eyes open. He couldn’t let himself relax, not even for a moment, or they would be back, and they would take him—and he couldn’t let himself be taken back to that room—to the box. The box, that was even smaller than the cell he now found himself in, the box that had walls that did close in, that pressed every closer and closer and closer until he couldn’t breathe, just as he could barely catch a breath here, the air getting warmer as he used the oxygen, as he slowly suffocated until they finally pumped more air into him—

Just breathe, Scott, just breathe. He had to keep reminding himself. Just as he had to keep reminding himself to stay awake. To keep his eyes open.

To not be broken when his brothers finally found him.

Chapter Text

His father once told him few things were difficult in life. What a lie that turned out to be.

Of course, Virgil had to admit, his father had told him that long before the creation of International Rescue—and before Gordon and Alan had been born. They disproved the saying the most, in Virgil’s opinion.

Still thinking drowsily about other words of wisdom his father had told him over the years, it took Virgil Tracy much longer than it should have to realize the air around him was getting hotter. There was an uncomfortable prickling sensation across the surface of his exposed skin, too, like little needles being jabbed haphazardly into his flesh. He raised a hand to ward the heat off his face, finding only temporarily relief, but it was long enough to finally drag open his eyes, blurred gaze falling first on the controls of Thunderbird 2, and then on the curious flickering reflecting off the twisted metal.

Flickering?

He stared at it for a long moment, then started to cough as the acrid smoke finally hit his nose. Realization as to what had happened hit him in a heartbeat and he started to struggle to disentangle himself from the remains of the controls, letting out a yelp of pain when a white-hot pain licked at his leg.

A white hot piece of metal dripped from above him and it took all of his willpower not to lose himself in pain. More flecks of melted metal started dripping and only quick reflexes saved him—somehow he managed to push up and off the controls before a large pool formed where he had been stuck.

It was a struggle to breathe—why haven’t the fire suppressant systems kicked on yet?

The ejection seat was damaged and even if it hadn’t been, there was no way of knowing if the rest of the system was still intact and he couldn’t risk depressurizing his aircraft unless he knew—so he needed to get to maintenance deck—

But in his new location, he noticed another sensation besides pain.

Falling.

Thunderbird 2 must have been damaged mid-air, it could be minute or even seconds before he crashed! He made his way through the wreckage to the secondary control chamber—but the door was jammed. With a hard kick from his good leg he managed to knock the lever into the open positon, and fled down into Thunderbird 2’s lower section, scanning the half-cracked screens and radar as he went for the secondary controls—

“What? No—this can’t be!” Rather than falling, it would seem that he was rising. Of course, that was why his craft was burning up. It was rubbing against the upper atmosphere. Without heat shields he was going to burn up.

Think, think!

“Gah,” Virgil looked down at his leg, and at the blood, momentarily mesmerized by the sight of it.

Unfortunately, not all burns result in cauterization, in fact very few do. A trail of blood had left his pant leg wet and his boot slippery. It wouldn’t be long before he lost consciousness, and be doomed along with his aircraft. He couldn’t afford to let that happen—he had—he had to—

His body was already reacting to years of emergency training by the time his mind caught up to what he was doing. His hands were flying over the control levers for the manual control of Thunderbird 2’s basic functions—and before he’d so much as blinked he’d increased Thunderbird 2’s fuel consumption as far as it could go, the extra juice forcing the engines beyond their capabilities and right into the safety net Brains had come up with a long time ago when it came to managing power consumption—

Too much power to the engines, and the safety feature would force a shutdown of all unnecessary functions and automatically force the ship into a guided landing in the ocean—an action intended to keep overheated engines from exploding. He could have initiated it without killing the engines had he still had the primary controls at hand, but with them completely ruined—well, this way would get it done too, before the atmosphere destroyed them.

The noise from the engines cut out, a low buzz from a backup generator creeping through the flooring. That’s it!

He felt the ever so pleasant feeling of weightlessness take over him. His feet drifted up from the floor, and small droplet of his blood rose and wandered away from his leg. They were moving down now—there couldn’t be enough power in the generator to last long, certainly not for a complete landing, but now that he wasn’t burning up and the ship was falling down now instead of into the atmosphere, if he could survive the fall—

If…if he could survive the watery landing—

No, no ifs—Gordon was going to find him. Gordon could find anyone when they were in the water. He just had to—god, my leg hurts so bad—he just had to get to a safety harness, buckle himself in, find a kit or a tourniquet to stop the bleeding in his leg—

He was still thinking about all he had to do when he heard the secondary sirens go off, warning of an impending impact. Any second and he was going to c—

Chapter Text

There wasn’t much left of him when they came.

“Family of his?” the doctor they met at the ward sounded doubtful, had eyed them up and down as if he couldn’t see the resemblance. “There’s few people here who have any left. I’ll show you to him. But it’s almost time for feeding—lunch. It’s almost time for their lunch,” he corrected himself. “So it’ll have to be a short visit.”

With that said, he turned, and started to lead the way through the asylum. At first it looked much like a rest home; various patients sitting here and there in rocking chairs, looking over books and newspapers. Music played quietly in the background from some distant room. But they did not stir as they passed, and few turned the pages they were looking at. Beyond this first room was another wide space filled with more patients, these ones engaged in various games such as chess and checkers, with the watchful eye of their caretakers on them. Again, besides the music, an unnatural silence filled the space.

“Easier to keep the louder ones quiet if they all are,” explained the doctor leading them. “It’s better for them anyway, the silence. Keeps them from getting too animated.”

“What happens if they get too animated?” Grandma Tracy had asked. He was glad she was the one who had been answering all the questions and answering everything that needed answering. He wasn’t sure if he could trust himself to speak, especially when the doctor just looked at them both, something approaching sympathy in his eyes.

“You’d rather not know, ma’am. Trust me.”

Now they reached the back rooms. At once, it became very obvious the spaces were overcrowded; more than one bed left a very narrow space between it and its neighbors, leaving just enough room for a caretaker to walk between. There was a distinct smell hanging in the air that reminded one of antiseptic, sweat, and sickness all at once. Despite how many people were present, few were moving or speaking, most simply staring off at a world of which only they were a part. Past these rooms—and there were few, thankfully—there was a long hallway, down which the doctor began to lead them.

It seemed this hallway went on forever, but finally the doctor came to a halt in front of a closed door. “We like to give them the opportunity to come and go,” he explained. “But sometimes it’s already too much for them. Like the we told you, he was found wandering along the highway with so many bruises you’d think he was run over a few times. Couldn’t get a word out of him. Now, you sure this is the one you’ve been looking for? Just so you’re prepared, he doesn’t—”

“We know what to expect,” said Grandma Tracy tightly. “Thank you. Open the door, please.”

The doctor shrugged, and did as she asked, swinging the door open wide so they could see inside the lit room. “Well, there he is, John Doe. Is he yours?”

A man was sitting alone in the corner of the padded area, rocking himself back and forth as he clutched his knees to his chest, but he seemed to freeze when he realized the door was open, and he slowly looked up.

The face was almost unrecognizable. Traces of stubble lined his cheeks, along with nicks and scratches as if the blade shaving him had been dull, or the patient struggling, and they’d given up the effort halfway through. Hair had been washed, but not cut. The color of his skin, much like the dull off-white clothes he’d been given to wear, had faded away to almost nothing, leaving a gray tinge behind. The bruises from his accident should have long since faded given how long he had been missing, but they were still there, dull blue reminders of what had happened to take him from them. The spattering of blue and purple served to make the unnatural hollows in his cheeks appear deeper than they were, the angular jutting of his cheekbones already making him seem more skeleton than man.

The face was almost unrecognizable—but Scott had always known his brother’s face better than anyone else.

“Yes,” he finally said to the doctor. “And he’s not John Doe.”

He stepped slowly into the room where the man was sitting, the blue eyes following him in wary confusion, the man’s body already shrinking back as if he expected some punishment or other unwanted attention. It broke his heart to have his brother pull back from him like that, but he didn’t try to reach out to stop him, instead crouching down beside him as to not appear large and intimidating.

“He’s John Tracy.”

“Well…if he is one of yours, I’ll see what I can do about getting his care transferred—”

“I’ll take care of everything,” interrupted Grandma, and she took the doctor by the arm and led him further down the hallway, sensing Scott needed a moment. He never even heard them go. The only thing that concerned him was the dull, empty look in his brother’s eyes where John was supposed to be.

He slowly reached out, taking one of the cold hands in his own. The man pulled away from him at first, but then he stopped, staring down at the hand holding his without saying a word. Scott squeezed the hand tightly, willing some warmth to be transferred—for the man to look at him, and to see him—recognize him. But the man did nothing, but stare blankly, mind already retreating back to wherever it had been for the last agonizing months when they had been trying to find him.

“John?” he said softly. “It’s me. Scott. I’m here. And I’m bringing you home.”