Birdwatching

Tuesday 11 May, 0700hrs New YorkWednesday 12 May, 2100hrs Cloudbase

At precisely seven am NYT, Jeff stood behind the podium in the Tracy Tower auditorium, Lee just behind his right shoulder, and gave the assembled cameras and journalists a winning smile, relaxed and calm. 

This was probably the most technically difficult speech he'd ever had to give. Because that bitch had proof he couldn't accuse her of slander and he couldn't outright deny everything, so today was about dancing between the lines of what he could and could not say to lead the thoughts of the general public - because that's who he was really talking to, not the reporters - a certain way. 

This would be the foundation of his defence, Tobais and his team were busy building the rest even now, and by the end of the month it’d be nothing more than a blip on the news cycle.

Taking a deep breath, Jeff began. “Good morning everyone, and thank you for coming. I'm going to just come right out and say it. The ‘expose’ screened last night can be summed up as bitter and angry words from a bitter and angry man who couldn't stand to share the spotlight, and that's all it is, words. I love my boys, I've cherished and nurtured them, and I've worked hard to give them the best of everything. To have my reputation attacked like this is deeply hurtful and I will fight these accusations - especially the baseless claim that my eldest son had to go into hiding.  Even now my lawyers are laying an injunction against the Kat Cavanaugh Show, and on their instructions I will not be able to answer any questions on this topic as it will be before the courts. Once again, thank you all for coming.” 

To a storm of “Mr Tracy!” and “just one question!”, with an accompanying forest of raised hands, he gave them all another smile and nod, stepped down from the podium and vanished out the side door, Lee guarding his back the whole way. 

“That was perfect,” Tobias fell into step with him and handed over a bottle of spring water. “We've got it up on the website and socials already.” 

“What about pinning as much of it as possible on Lucille?” 

“We're still running test audiences, but blaming a dead woman isn't proving popular, especially with how she died.” 

“Keep at it, there's got to be a way. How are the lawyers going?” That was what Jeff really wanted to know. 

“They’re still in their meeting, but we should get a report when they break for lunch.” 

“Good. What's the next step?” 

“A counter attack. We're digging for dirt now, vetting a reporter for a follow up interview, and lining up character witnesses to tell the world the truth about the man who is the only possible choice for the next World President.” 

Jeff felt his lips stretch into a smile as he cracked open the bottle. “Good work Tobias, very good.”

T H U N D E R F A L L 

Between adventures, home for the Pendergasts was a small house tucked away in Burrumbeet, Australia. It was their haven, a place to rest, recover, and plan out new expeditions. 

They were in the middle of doing just that, having gotten back two days ago after a trip to Peru. The plan had been to take advantage of the cool night breeze to relax on the porch and review their footage before turning in, and they were more than a little annoyed to have their quiet time interrupted by a call on their private number.

They were even more annoyed when the guy calling them explained what he was after.

Buddy looked at the hologram, then at Ellie, who's extremely expressive face was doing an extremely expressive demonstration of how she felt about the idea. 

“Tobias, right? Lemme get this straight.” Buddy laid back on his hammock chair. “Your boss wants me to tell the world he's an awesome guy after Kat Cavernaugh told the world he beat his kid?” 

“It's muck-raking by an angry, bitter man who couldn't share the spotlight…” Tobias started, but Buddy cut him off before he got any further. 

“I've met that ‘angry, bitter man’,” he kept his own expression neutral for now, ”and I've met Gordon and I've met Alan. I've never met Jeff.” 

“That can be fixed in a matter of minutes,” Tobias gave him an ingratiating smile, “and the boost to your program will be…” 

Buddy cut him off again. “Mate, I would rather fuck a spider.” He ended the call and looked at his wife. “Ells, you get all that?” 

She held up her tablet, grinning broadly. “Every last bit. Feel like doing a quick piece to camera? I can have it edited and up before bed.” 

“Luv, I thought you'd never ask.” Buddy rearranged himself in his chair, made sure his beer bottle was out of view, and when Ellie held up the tablet and gave him the thumbs up he tossed off a cheery wave. “Hello adventurers, Buddy here. I’m sure you’ve heard about the report about Jeff Tracy by now, and if you haven’t you soon will. Me and Ells just got a call from Jeff’s head PR guy and someone forgot that Victoria is a one party consent state. We’ll let the clip speak for itself.” 

He waited until Ellie had lowered the tablet before reclaiming his beer. “How was that, Luv?” 

“That was perfect, Buddy.” Ellie was already hard at work splicing the two clips together. “I’ll have this up in no time.” 

It was online less than half an hour later, and it was the snowflake that set off a proverbial avalanche.

T H U N D E R F A L L 

The hastily arranged interview at the Superlative Hadron Collider was conducted by remote, but that didn’t detract one bit from its message. 

“You’ve worked with International Rescue on several occasions, including providing the Centurium 21 fuel that was used to rescue Jeff Tracy from the Oort Cloud,” the reporter was saying, “but even though you’ve never met Jeff Tracy you’re speaking out against him?” 

“I am.” Calm and composed, Professor Moffat nodded, her chin raised and firm. “I was in fact recently invited to visit Tracy Island to meet him and possibly work for him, but I declined straight away. I couldn’t take the risk of working for a man like him or giving him access to my research.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Well, look at what happened to his wife, Lucille,” Moffie replied, getting animated as she warmed to the reason why she’d arranged this interview. “Not long before she married Jeff Tracy, Lucille Tracy née Evans designed the magnetic pinch bottle; the foundation technology for magnetic fusion and the heart of the engine in almost every modern spacecraft. And she didn’t just create a design that was stable in the lab, but she made one robust enough to be used in space. She single-handedly founded our current space age, but after she marries him? Nothing. No articles, no papers, no patents, no books, no interviews. I know she did some of the early engineering work for Tracy Industries, but on every design, patent application, and article I could dig up, do you know who I found listed as the author or designer? ‘Jeff Tracy et al’. He took credit for her brilliance and erased her! And she’s not the only person he’s done this to!” Moffie visibly stopped herself and took a calming breath. “So you see why I couldn’t possibly go - alone, by the way - to that man’s private island in the middle of nowhere.”

T H U N D E R F A L L 

Lieutenant Commander Atlanta Shore worked very hard to not roll her eyes as she listened to the… she checked her tally… fifth reporter who’d made it through to her office ‘phone, trying to get information by going to WASP for the Gordon Tracy angle. She had to give the guy credit for persistence and creativity. After getting the official spiel of ‘no comment’ and ignoring it, he was really laying it on thick with the ‘vital for people to know the truth with the election looming’ and other variations on the theme.  

He wasn’t going to get a thing out of her though - she had her orders -  and she refused to give him the toe-hold of a disrespectful eye-roll to make print out of.

The first reason for her discipline was years of service in WASP and being held to a much higher standard than everyone else simply because she was Commander Shore’s daughter, the shared name automatically meant she had a much harder course to row.

The second reason was years of exposure to Tempest. 

“The answer still hasn’t changed: No comment. No access. No interviews. Goodbye.” A flick of her hand dismissed the call and she leaned her elbows on her desk so she could rub her temples to fend off the looming headache. “I need hazard pay for this.” Yes, her job was to be the final filter to keep the nonsense out of the commander’s hair, but this was getting ridiculous. How in Amphitrite’s name were so many people getting past the media liaison office? 

“Atlanta?” A whirr of a hover chair and a touch on her arm was her father. 

“Are you sure this is the right thing to do, sir?” she asked as she raised her head. She’d met Lieutenant Commander Tracy and a couple of his brothers in passing once or twice, and of course she’d seen the news reports over the years. But as far as WASP as a whole was concerned, it didn’t matter that it’d been years since he wore the uniform, Tracy was still one of them and he was entitled to the same protection as an active member. This broken record response of ‘no comment’ was feeling uncomfortably like not taking responsibility and not standing in defence of one of their own, and the fact that Jeff Tracy and her father had been friends was only adding to that feeling. 

“I’ve got Phones doing his thing, seems like some of those reporters are handing out bribes - and not a little blackmail - to get through to you,” Shore told her. “We’ll get the cracks plugged in no time.” 

“But just leaving it at ‘no comment’?” Atlanta frowned. “Tracy’s WASP, he's one of us.” 

“The water is muddy enough without us diving in too.” Shore clearly wasn’t happy about it either, giving her arm a reassuring little squeeze. “It’s being handled, trust me, but it's delicate. If we start spouting off we could capsize things.” 

“Speaking of capsize…” 

“Yes, Marina’s keeping Troy busy and well off shore in Stingray for the next few days,” Shore reassured her, “there’s no way I’m chancing him being unsupervised with the press on the hunt.” The ‘again’ went unsaid. 

“Yes, father.” The holophone chimed and Atlanta gave the device a venomous glare: it was another reporter. “Sir, I want hazard pay.” 

“You’ll get it,” Shore promised as he backed up out of camera range - if he was spotted, it might get the reporter’s hopes up of more information, especially if the word spread that they were starting to get past the proverbial guard at the gate. “I’ll tell Phones to stomp on things harder.” 

“Thank you, sir.” Atlanta nodded, squared her shoulders and girded herself for caller #6. 

Sam Shore felt his heart swell with pride as he watched his daughter at work, but he couldn’t help the curl of concern - and guilt -  that curdled his belly. Charles had visited last week to give him the warning about the storm bearing down on them and the course he wanted WASP to sail. He hadn’t wanted to believe it, but Charles had brought proof, and it’d taken a lot of fast talking from Charles to keep him from calling Jeff to bawl him out, then call everyone he knew to spread the news. 

Sam couldn’t hide his grimace. This whole mess had been a hell of a bitter pill to swallow. ‘Charlie, I hope like heck you’ve got this under control, because sitting on my thumbs like this is getting hard.’ 

T H U N D E R F A L L

Standing in the hall and listening to the bickering in the Yellow Drawing Room, Étienne Gieger rolled his eyes to the quite frankly ostentatious baroque rococo ceiling and prayed for strength to resist temptation. 

He had faithfully served the Lemaires as their head butler for almost ten years. With the kind of lifestyle the couple led, the tabloid scavengers had always lurked about with very large cheques in hand for gossip and tittle tattle, he could only imagine what this little exchange would bring with the current atmosphere. 

“Françios!” 

Étienne winced. Madame always became somewhat shrill when she was upset. 

“You mean to tell me you want to support Jefferson Tracy?!” she went on to exclaim. 

“I quite simply can’t imagine that he'd do something like that. It must be an exaggeration. You know what the press are like, they'll make molehills into mountains at the barest suggestion of a possible scandal. They’ve done it to me enough times.” 

Étienne could imagine the expression that the Master would be wearing, his eyes half shut as he looked down his nose at Madame while lolling indolently in his favourite armchair, a snifter of brandy in hand. 

“He has always been a perfect gentleman to me,” the Master sniffed, “unlike his sons.” 

“His sons who have saved our lives how many times?” Madame demanded. 

“I’ve told you, each and every time I knew exactly what I was doing!” 

“Oh yes, you know exactly what to do: press the emergency button and eat camembert cheese with quince paste while you wait for rescue.” She paused, then sneeringly added “when you can find the emergency button, that is.” 

The last line was laced with enough acid to burn even through the door. Despite himself Étienne crept closer to listen. They'd quarrelled before, but nothing like this. 

“How dare you!?” 

A crash and breaking crockery was the Master lunging to his feet and knocking something over. 

“No. How dare you, François Lemaire. I am fed up to the back teeth with your lackadaisical attitude to my safety and your callous disregard for anyone not yourself. We are done.” 

“...Madeline, what…what are you saying?” 

Étienne blinked, the Master sounded actually scared. 

“I am going to stay with my brother,” Madame snapped. 

Heels clacked on marble and Étienne scrambled out of the way just before the double doors were thrown open and the furious Madeline stormed out, tears brimming in her eyes but her head held high. She spotted him immediately. “Étienne, have my travel cases brought up and the car brought around,” she ordered.

“Yes, Madame.” 

T H U N D E R F A L L

"Who, Harrison?" John stared at his assistant, he couldn't have heard that correctly. He’d never met the man but he knew the name and the reputation, and a surprise visit, just dropping in out of the blue without even a ‘phone call? It was unheard of.

Harrison canted an eyebrow, he'd worked with John Svenson before he was The John Svenson, and had no fear of the man. "Lord Hugh Creighton-Ward. He said to mention that you have a mutual foe." 

John leaned back in his chair and tapped his fingers together. "Did he now?" There was only one foe that had his attention currently and he’d have been lying if he’d said wasn’t burning with curiosity about how the man knew about his interest in the matter. "Ten minutes. Unless I say otherwise." "Noted, Mr. Svenson. Ten minutes." Harrison turned and ushered in a tall man with blue eyes and silvered blond hair that was slightly longer than fashionable. What was extremely fashionable was his three piece suit in charcoal grey in a conservative English cut, crisp white shirt, and some kind of school or regimental tie done in a four-in-hand knot. John shifted slightly in his chair, he knew enough about clothes to realise this English lord was wearing bespoke Savile Row. 

John stood and held out his hand. "Lord Creighton-Ward." 

"Mr. Svenson." The handshake was firm without any of the usual power games. "I shan't take much of your time. I'm here to offer you an invitation for dinner tonight in New York. Harvest's private dining room, 8pm sharp."

The choice of restaurant was reassuring, but…"To what aim, Lord Creighton-Ward?"

The smile that came his way was a lion's snarl. "To discuss the downfall of Jeff Tracy." 

"So he would be our 'mutual' foe?" John crossed his arms. While he was reasonably certain about his own attack on the man, the offer of help would shorten the timeline considerably.

"Just so." 

John didn't need to think it over, but he made a show of it, he did have a reputation after all. "Any reason we couldn't discuss it now?" He waved a hand at the two couches and table in the corner of the room.

"Because the third member of this triumvirate isn't present." The lord hooked a thumb into his jacket pocket. "So, dinner?"

John's curiosity was aflame as he tried to figure out who the third person would be. "Dinner. I will see you there." "Excellent." Lord Creighton-Ward held out his hand again. "Do be on time, it's rude to keep a lady waiting." 

T H U N D E R F A L L

“Bearheads!” In his artfully messy lounge, Brandon was lying sprawled across a gaming chair upholstered in orange and grey, surrounded by carefully arranged sports and video equipment. “Unless you’ve been living under a rock, you’ve heard about what a certain person has been accused of doing to the guy who literally saved my life. I said it on my socials, and I’ll say it again, right here, right now on live stream: I believe Scott Tracy.” 

He sat up straight, serious for one of the few times in his life. “Scotty’s someone I know, same with his brothers Virgil and Alan. I’ve seen them in action, and they always show up, camera or no camera. But Jeff Tracy?” His features twisted into a disgusted scowl. “Me, Goose, The Bear Team, and a few friends of ours have been digging ever since the broadcast aired. You only ever see Jeff Tracy when there’s people he wants to be seen by and seen with, and he always talks to the journos. The rest of International Rescue? If you ever see them on camera, they’re the ones doing the actual work while the big man takes the glory. Bearheads, I’ve got a challenge for you: look back in the archives, ask around, make notes. See when Jeff Tracy shows up and look at who’s there: who’re the rich people, who’re the famous people, who’re the important people in trouble and needing a rescue. Actions, words, which one speaks louder, Bearheads? Ask yourself who’re you gonna believe? The person who only shows up when it helps him, or the people who always show up to help you?” 

T H U N D E R F A L L 

“I don’t care what it’s doing to your budget, we have a job to do and we are going to see it done!” Colonel Casey snapped as she stared down the image of the commander in charge of the North Atlantic. “If we lose a ship because you ‘can’t find the budget’ to run the operation you put on paper as having, I will have your head on a plate, and that’s after you’ve fronted to high command to fess up to spending all your operational budget on not making sure your crews and your ships are ready to respond, 24/7. Is that clear?” 

“....yessir,” the man gulped, pale even through the blue tinting of the hologram, and Val cut the call with one hand while reaching for a bottle of ibuprofen with the other. She dry-swallowed a pill, made a timestamped note so she wouldn’t accidentally OD, then pulled up the file on her next proverbial fire to put out. iR had taken the strain in so many places across the world that many of her regional commanders had gotten slack, and the current crisis had shown that there was a non-zero number of ‘paper tiger’ operations out there: reported to be fully staffed and kitted out, but the reality was severely lacking. 

‘I have a feeling there’s going to be several resignations after this, but there’s no way they’re going to be accepted until after the investigations,’ was her sour thought as she scoured a map of Southwest USA and considered how to best redeploy the assets they had.  

A tap at her door got an irritated “What is it?” as she frowned at the map. 

Her aide de camp Lieutenant Rand stuck her head in. “Colonel, it’s Jeff Tracy’s office calling. Again. They want a statement of support.” 

“Tell them I’m busy,” Val tried to not snap, and to Janice’s credit she recognised that. “Yes I know I’m the GDF Liaison with iR, but iR’s not flying and I’ve got emergencies to deal with.” 

“Understood.” Janice nodded. “Coffee?” 

“Yes, but make it decaf,” Val absently waved a hand at the collection of cups on the corner of her desk. “If I have any more caffeine I’ll be in orbit without the help of a rocket.” 

That got a brief smile. “Yessir.” 

Janice ducked out and Val went back to her map, brows drawn close together in concentration as she moved GDF assets around like a grandmaster playing chess. 

T H U N D E R F A L L 

This interview was an unusual one. Conducted in the visiting room of the rebuilt main facility of Parkmoor Scrubs Prison, the man once known as Fuse of the Chaos Crew was tidily presented in what had to be his court clothes, not the black and white stripes of an inmate, and seated opposite his interviewer at a plain, utilitarian table. 

The meeting had been arranged well in advance by a certain Lady with the ear of the right people in the right places and a deep appreciation of the effects of a personal narrative.

“Thank you for agreeing to speak with us,” the reporter said, her tone warm and friendly. “Though it did come as a surprise, considering you and your sister’s history with International Rescue.” 

“I had to.” Clarence made a vague gesture at their surroundings. “We saw it, the report I mean, an’ the press conference this mornin’.” His expression darkened. “‘e's lyin’. Jeff Tracy, I mean, not Scott Tracy. I grew up in the system, I know when someone's lyin’.” Clarence shifted his weight, his expression changing from anger to bitter regret. “Look, I'm in here because of what I did, right? An’ one of those things I did was almost murder Gordon Tracy. We dropped a pile o’ rocks on his submarine an’…” He paused to take a deep breath, “...an’ then I left him there to die. And you know what happened later?” Clarence straightened up. “Scott Tracy saved my life. I was at Shackleton t’ steal uranium. I set off the lock down, an’ I got in trouble. Big trouble. Like, ‘I should be dead’ trouble, an’ I dragged Scott an’ two GDF guys right into that trouble with me. Scott saved me when he had no reason to and I had no right to be saved. I almost killed his brother on purpose, and he risked it all to save me. That ain't what a ‘bitter and angry man’ would do. You ask me?” He leaned back in his seat, arms crossed over his broad chest. “Th’ only ‘bitter an angry man’ ‘round here is Jeff Tracy. He’s got somethin’ to hide and he’s scared it’s all gonna be dragged out inta the light.” 

T H U N D E R F A L L

In his London workshop, Tycho Reeves considered Becky’s hologram like it was a particularly fascinating insect, and in some ways it was. 

He had been in touch with Moffie for almost three years now, having met her through Brains, and she and he had been in cahoots on how to get Brains out of his pickle as soon as she’d alerted him to the true nature of Jeff Tracy. The knowledge that Brains had been evac’d out was a deep relief for both of them. 

What made the little hologram of the PR flunky so fascinating to him was that the woman had the inside scoop on Jeff Tracy and she was still sold on him, hook, line and sinker, passionately defending his cause instead of running for the hills like a sane person. Not only that, she was trying to convince him to speak up in the man’s defence. ‘I should look into why she’s doing this. Must make sure I don’t fall for something like it too,’ he mused as she went on, extolling the virtues of a man he’d never met and really didn’t want to. 

She finally paused for breath and Tycho jumped in before she could continue her hardline sales pitch. 

“No thank you, and never call me again.” He hung up and blocked her number, then on second thought he set his phone to private and flicked a message to his PA to screen all of his calls with absolutely nothing from Jeff Tracy or his people to be passed on until further notice. 

Task done, Tycho went back to his work. He had upgrades to the Hypertube to finish and roll out before the rush of holiday travellers. 

T H U N D E R F A L L 

“It was a complete bloodbath after Jeff took over,” Doctor June Calligan told the interviewer. 

Once the head of R&D at Tracy Industries’ UK division, she was one of a group of former employees that had (with the encouragement of a certain Lady) banded together for a series of interviews with one of Kat Cavernaugh’s comrades - another investigative journalist who reported under the moniker of Abby South - and they were being interviewed in twos and threes.

“The man ruled the room and he deliberately dismantled all of Scott’s pet projects, no matter how much profit they were making,” she went on to say.

“He fired me and half the board at TI’s South American division,” Eduardo Sousa chimed in from his seat next to her. “Scott hired me as head of security, but as soon as Jeff took charge, me and everyone else that Scott or any of the other Tracys hired was either out or on their way out. He kept everyone that he’d hired and everyone that his people had mentored, but if you were a ‘new’ hire, unless you proved your loyalty you got your walking papers pretty quick.” 

“Did anyone try to bring this in front of the employment courts?” Abby asked. “That has to have violated your contracts.” 

“Some of us tried, but his lawyers sued and bankrupted…” Eduardo looked to Calligan.

“Seventeen,” June supplied. 

“Yeah, seventeen people, citing non-compete clauses and other stuff.” Eduardo made a face. “That plus things that started happening to the people that didn’t have those clauses: broken windows, cars getting damaged brakes, our kids being followed by vans… well, it made the rest of us shut up pretty quick.” 

“So why didn’t you go to the police?” Abby asked the question she knew everyone else would want an answer to. 

June and Eduardo shared an incredulous look, then turned back to Abby. “It’s Jeff Tracy,” Eduardo began, "the richest man on the planet, and he was giving a warning. If we’d taken it further… well… we’ve all seen what happens to whistleblowers.” 

“Why speak out now?” 

“Because Kat’s expose put the truth out there and if something happens now the world will listen and the world will know it was him,” was June’s reply.    

T H U N D E R F A L L 

At five minutes to eight, John Svenson strode into the Harvest restaurant and went straight to the maitre'd, a slim man somewhere in his forties who looked about as ruffle-able as a statue. “Good evening, John Svenson, there should be a reservation under Lord Hugh Creighton-Ward for the private dining room,” he said, scanning the main room to see if he could spot the Brit and the mysterious third party. 

“Yes sir.” The maitre'd beckoned over a young woman in a crisp black uniform and spotless white apron. 

“This way please sir.” She turned and guided him to the small private room at the back of the restaurant. The table was already occupied by Lord Hugh and an older woman in a dark suit and royal purple blouse.  

“Ah, right on time,” Lord Hugh said as he rose to greet him. “Mr Svenson, I would like to introduce our third party, Doctor Ruth Tracy.” 

“A pleasure,” John said with a polite smile and a handshake that covered how he was actually feeling. He knew of the Tracy matriarch by reputation, if she was involved in this… if she was going up against her own son… ‘There is much more going on here than meets the eye…’

By silent mutual agreement, a quick scan of the menu was made and orders were placed, and as soon as the waitress had their orders and was out of the room, John got straight to business. “Doctor Tracy, would I be right in suspecting you’re leading the charge?” 

“You would be. Because I know you like to know someone’s credentials, I was a partner in my husband’s agricultural business, I was heavily involved in managing the board in the immediate aftermath when Jeff was… away, and assisted in running it while Scott and the boys were in charge. The board all either know me or know of me.” She drew a paper folder from the bag beside her chair and laid it on the table. “Gentlemen, I need your help in launching a hostile takeover of Tracy Industries. Between the three of us, we are now the majority shareholders. The end goal of this operation is to get Jeff and his sycophants out while keeping TI as intact as possible: it provides the funding for International Rescue, and I’m sure you’ll agree that the world needs iR back in the air ASAP.” Her lips thinned. “This needs to be done quickly and seamlessly. Knowing Jeff like I do, the longer things are drawn out, the higher the chances that he’ll burn the place down on his way out the door.” 

“If he can’t have it, no one can?” John guessed. 

“Exactly.” 

For a moment, just a moment, he caught a flicker of bitter self-recrimination, but it was gone before he could blink. 

“I have been advised that Spectrum will be arresting Jeff as soon as they can,” Doctor Tracy went on. “There’s a lot of moving pieces in play, but all we have to worry about is our end. If we can get the takeover underway before Spectrum acts, we’ll keep TI out of limbo and move things along that much faster.” 

John nodded slowly, absorbing everything. ‘I wonder if Adam’s involved in this. It has to be more than just that expose, especially with how he asked me to get in on things all those months ago.’  “Why is Spectrum doing the arrest?” he asked out loud. “Not that I don’t agree that TI and iR need to be out of that -” he almost said ‘bastard’ but caught himself just in time “- man’s hands as soon as possible, and he cannot possibly be allowed to win the election, but so far what he’s done is local law enforcement level, not World Government level.” 

Doctor Tracy flicked a quick look at the door to make sure it was closed, then turned back to him. “Do you recall what happened to my eldest grandson while he was in the military?”

It took a moment’s thought, but he nodded. “Yes, but…” The penny dropped and he blanched. “He’s involved with that country?!” 

“Yes.” 

That cinched it for him. ‘Adam and I have a… complicated relationship,’ John admitted to himself, ‘but there is no way in hell I’ll stand by while someone makes nice with the people who tried to kill him.’ “I’m in.” He nodded to the door. “Food first, it’ll be due any minute now, then show us your plans, Doctor Tracy.” 

T H U N D E R F A L L 

Exhausted at the end of a quite frankly hellish day, Tobias dropped into his plush office chair with a groan. He took the time to rub both temples with his fingers before pouring himself a glass of G Rum No.1 and taking a long sip. 

Today had been bad and he was not looking forward to Jeff’s reaction to the results of their work trying to drum up popular support for him. He had a few voices, but no one of serious substance and standing, and anyone that’d been rescued by Scott? They were closing ranks and speaking out in his favour. “How the hell did this go so sideways?” Tobias asked himself as he sat back with his drink. The election should have been a cinch and running this campaign should have been smooth sailing all the way. He’d done his research before signing on the dotted line, looking into the backgrounds and track records of all the candidates like a gambler picking where to lay his bets on the Superbowl. Jeff Tracy had stood head and shoulders above the rest, a rising star that continually stretched to ever more stupendous heights, and attaching his name to the Tracy campaign promised to open every door for him.  

But now… now that crusading bitch was going to ruin everything! Between ‘The Bear’ kicking off his trending hashtag on one side of the younger voter base and the Pendergasts’ cheeky little clip starting things off with the other side, Professor Moffat appealing to the female and scientific communities, and of all things, one of the Chaos Crew speaking to the rougher end of society and the bleeding hearts who wanted to rehabilitate them, they were in deep trouble. Sure, they had the TI/Jeff Tracy die-hards railing away on social media and posting their clips of their favourite Jeff Tracy moments, but aside from Lemaire and Fischler there weren't any big social media names on their side and the overwhelming majority of mainstream media outlets were playing hard to get. Yale - both current students and alumini-  was turning out in force on Alan and Scott's side (and he was grinding his teeth over what those college kids were doing, he’d literally kill to have that creativity and passion for their guy), the GDF was refusing to toe the line, and on top of all that, someone, or several someones more likely, had even dug up and set loose two or three more videos from the Paris Air Show incident and the media had pounced on it! 

Tobias scowled and took another sip of rum, letting the alcohol sit on his tongue and feeling the pleasant burn of it before swallowing. The Paris Air Show stuff was something he was going to chase up personally, they’d laid out a lot of money to Tracy’s people in the different media outlets to catch and kill that particular story and all the associated photos and videos that went with it. 

“All this means we’re fighting eight plus years of the Scott Tracy brand, the kids who’ve grown up with him as the face of International Rescue, versus two plus years of the Jeff Tracy brand,” Tobias sighed as he thought out loud. “Yeah, our guy’s got the most recent attention, but he’s not as established with the current generation. But it’s not too late to salvage this.” Tobias swirled the glass, watching the light play off the alcohol and the cut crystal glass. “Everyone hits a stumble or set back along the way, it was naive to think it’d all be smooth sailing. That’s all this is, a set back, and something that we can later frame as proof about how great our guy is, how he rose above this to get to where he needed to be. Yeah, that’ll work, ‘Rising Above’, that’ll be the perfect title for his autobiography.”   

Feeling much better about it all, Tobias put down his glass and called up a holoscreen to quickly jot down some notes, only to get interrupted by a knock at the door. 

“What is it?” he asked, and not a little sharply, irritated at the interruption to his flow. 

Expecting one of the interns, he was vaguely surprised when the bottle blond analyst walked in, a battered and old paper folder in his hand and a smug grin on his face. “Tobias, I just struck gold,” he announced as he put the olive green folder down on the desk.

His notes forgotten, Tobias dragged it closer, opened it up, then whistled through his teeth as he read the papers, then read them again to make sure they said what he thought they did. He looked up at the analyst - some really forgettable name. "Is this for real?"

Bottle Blond nodded. "I called in a favour with a guy I know in the WAAF records department. We can file an expedited FOIA since we have names. We can't use this yet, not until we have it 'officially', but after that it’s all on." 

Watching a pegasus fall out of the sky would always be chilling. There was a difference, of course, a big one, between a controlled dive that they could pull out of in a heartbeat, and the simple effect of gravity forcing them back to the ground when they could no longer keep themselves in the air.

Scarlet had spent enough time working with pegasi to be able to spot the difference, even at a distance. And what he'd just seen was, undoubtedly, the latter. 

One moment Blue had been flying swiftly through the air after their target. The next, said target had swooped back and Blue had been hit, hit hard, and he'd dropped like a rock towards the trees below.

The woodland that bordered the industrial compound the Mysteron's had targeted was dense and wild. Pushed back away from the buildings but otherwise left to its own devices. Finding somepony in that forest would be difficult.

Scarlet followed Blue’s rapid descent, and practically leapt into a gallop the second it became obvious that he wasn't going to, or couldn't catch himself.

Blue disappeared from sight. The crunch of distant branches and a scattering of birds fleeing into the air told Scarlet exactly what had happened. He needed to get to Blue as quickly as possible, his hooves kicking up the dirt as he ran, weaving around trees and jumping gnarled roots that jutted up out of the ground.

A spark of magic locked onto the tracker in Blue's uniform - a trick that Magenta had taught him some time ago that often came in useful - and told him roughly where he was. 

Scarlet followed the signal, not stopping even when a narrow stream came into view ahead of him. He easily cleared the water in one swift jump, losing no momentum as he landed on the other side.

A pink light flashed in the corners of his vision as his comms beeped in his ears, and his cap mic swung down into place.

"Scarlet, have you found him?" asked Magenta.

"No, but he's close," Scarlet replied. The signal was getting stronger, Blue had to be around here somewhere.

Scarlet slowed to a brisk trot, his eyes darting back and forth in search of a glimpse of blue amongst the greens and browns. "Damn it, Blue, where did you land?" he muttered between heavy breaths. Another slightly stronger spark gave him a clearer signal, and he turned and headed in that direction.

The first physical sign that he was going in the right direction was a single blue feather laying in the dirt.

"Blue?" Scarlet called out as he quickened his pace to a canter. He didn't get a response, but he didn't need one.

He pushed his way through the undergrowth, spotting another feather caught in the bushes. And on the other side, sprawled across the grass and worryingly still, was Blue.

"Magenta, I found him," Scarlet said quickly, before flicking his cap mic up and out of the way and dashing over to Blue. Magic shimmered around his horn as he tried to assess the condition Blue was in, though he could figure at least some of it out with his eyes.

"Blue, it's Scarlet, can you hear me?" Scarlet asked, cautious of touching him, not wanting to hurt him further. For the moment, he would rely solely on his magic giving him information on what was wrong.

Blue was breathing, and his pulse was a little fast, but he was alive and that was the most important thing. He hadn't responded to Scarlet's arrival, but the pained look on his face suggested that he was at least partially conscious. 

A quick glance at the broken branches above them confirmed Scarlet's theory of what had happened. The cuts and scrapes marking Blue's fur and feathers with red only added to that.

Scarlet’s magic gave no indication of injuries to Blue’s neck or back, which was a relief on its own. His legs seemed okay too, and there were no signs of any large bleeds anywhere. He’d definitely be bruised and sore for a while, but the fewer larger injuries, the better. 

One of Blue's wings was draped loosely over him, but the other was partly trapped underneath him, folded at an odd angle. The metallic tang of blood lingered in the air, mixed with dirt and sap from the broken branches that had ripped and torn at Blue’s feathers. Blood was dotted amongst the blue and yellow, and loose feathers were scattered around him. Some looked like they'd been dipped in red ink.

"Blue? I need to know if you're with me, buddy," Scarlet urged. Seeing Blue like this left a cold weight in the pit of his stomach. He needed to figure out the condition the fall had left him, and he needed to do it fast.

It took a moment, but eventually Blue opened his eyes and looked up at Scarlet. "Paul...?" he said, rough and quiet.

"Yeah, I'm here. Just stay still, okay? I've got you," Scarlet replied, meeting Blue's gaze with what he hoped was a reassuring smile. 

Blue gave a small nod and closed his eyes again. His breath shuddered as he exhaled. Something was definitely not right.

"My- my wing. It hurts-" Blue said shakily, his voice tight. Scarlet couldn't tell if it was from pain or fear. Or both. It was probably both.

Pegasus wings were powerful but delicate things. Many ponies, unicorns and earth ponies especially, didn’t realise how easy it could be to damage them. Broken feathers weren't uncommon, and whilst serious cases could affect flight, more often than not it just left the wings looking scruffy for a while whilst the feathering grew back. 

Anything that cut deeper than scapes or damaged plumage, however, could quickly range from concerning to devastating. And for a pony like Blue, a pegasus who loved to fly, who would probably spend all his time in the air if he could? Any kind of injury to his wings was frightening.

Scarlet had known at least one pegasus who had been almost completely grounded after suffering a badly broken wing. Even long after it had healed, they'd struggled to stay in the air for long. He didn't even want to imagine what something like that would do to Blue.

"Okay, I'll have a look," Scarlet said calmly. He didn't want to add to Blue's panic. It was already rare for him to be visibly afraid like this, Scarlet didn't want to make it any worse.

Scarlet pushed a little more magic into his spell, lowering his head to hold his horn closer to Blue's left wing - the one draped over him. Pale blue light, glittering with white and specks of green, shone against Blue's feathers as the spell did its work. Scarlet wasn't a medic, he couldn't heal wounds quickly like some unicorns could, but his magic did work as assessment and first aid, and right now that was what he needed.

Scratches and nicks of damage pinged across the length of Blue's wing where feathers had been torn out and the skin beneath had snagged on the tree branches. These were things that would heal easily. Feathers took time to grow back in, but relatively minor damage like this shouldn't keep a pegasus on the ground.

Scarlet carefully stepped over Blue and moved his focus to his right wing. If there was a more serious injury, he suspected it would be here. Trapped under Blue's weight and held at an awkward angle, it had likely taken more of the impact when he hit the ground. Scarlet really, truly hoped it wasn't anything too serious.

He took a breath, then shifted his magic over, the blue glow fading from one wing and settling on the other. Similar small pings of damage popped up at first, but were quickly overridden by a much sharper signal.

Scarlet focused his magic on that area, and swallowed hard as he processed the information he was receiving. Close to the elbow joint, just above it, was a much bigger flare. Internal damage, very possibly a fracture.

The blue glow around Scarlet's horn faded away and he stood up straight.

"Adam," he said, keeping his voice level despite the worry that had started to gnaw at him. Staying calm and professional was never easy when it was Adam who was injured. Especially not like this. "Do you think you can sit up? Or at least lay on your belly, rather than your side?" he asked. Whilst he didn't know a lot about treating a broken wing, he did know the basics - it had been covered in first aid training many times over the years. But he couldn't do any of that with Blue's wing still underneath him.

Blue nodded and lifted his head. "Yeah, yeah I think so," he said, a little steadier now, but Scarlet knew him too well, and the pain and fear was still very much there.

Scarlet crouched at Blue's side to help ease him upright, matching his slow movements to avoid hurting him. Soon, he was laying comfortably on his belly, his hind legs close to his sides and his front legs tucked against his chest. He stretched out his left wing, wincing as the movement tugged at the scrapes and pulled feathers, but other than that the movement was fluid, confirming that the damage was minimal.

The right wing, however...

Trying to move it was a bad idea, and that became obvious immediately. Blue's feathers twitched and he gritted his teeth, and the wing stayed half-folded at his side.

"Shit..."

"Easy does it," Scarlet said gently. His horn lit up again and magic flowed across Blue's injured wing, focusing on the point of pain and pushing energy into a spell that should help to ease it. He couldn't get rid of all of it, not for an injury like this. It wouldn't last as long as proper painkillers either, but it was better than nothing. "Adam, you're going to hate this, but I need you to stay calm."

Blue looked up at him, an uncommon dread in his eyes. He knew what Scarlet was going to say but didn't want to accept it. "Why?"

"Because it will be easier. For both of us, but mostly you. I don't want you to hurt yourself."

Blue took a deep breath and looked away. "Just tell me..."

Scarlet watched him for a moment. He hated seeing Adam like this, he really, really did. But he couldn't keep the truth from him. "I think your wing is broken."

Blue let out a shuddering breath and rested his head on his front hooves, his ears pressed flat against his skull. "Okay..."

Scarlet laid a gentle hoof on Blue's shoulder. "You'll be alright."

Blue didn't look at him, just stared forward at the grass and leaves, dotted with blue and yellow feathers.

Before Scarlet could say more his epaulettes flashed pink, and the mic in his cap swung down and into place.

"Scarlet," said Magenta. "Everything okay? How's Blue?"

Scarlet took a breath before he replied, willing himself to keep calm. Splitting his focus between his magic and his injured friend was difficult enough already. Adding another thing didn't make it any easier. 

"Injured, but awake and aware," he replied. "How are things out there?"

"We've dealt with our flying troublemaker. Another of the pegasi managed to take them out after Blue went down. They won't cause anymore problems," Magenta explained. Scarlet was simply glad that the pony responsible for hurting Adam had been stopped. "Grey just headed out to find you two. He's got first-aid gear with him. He's flying over the forest, could you send up a flare or something so he can locate you easier?"

Scarlet looked up at the canopy overhead. It was thick and full of leaves. Grey likely wouldn't be able to spot them from above unless he found the damaged branches. And flying through them would be tricky without catching his wings on anything. But a bit of magic could pull them clear for long enough to allow Grey to fly through.

"Yes, I can do that," Scarlet said, his gaze dropping back to Blue, laying quietly and still staring at nothing. "Can you and Ochre handle everything on your end?"

"We'll be fine, there shouldn't be too much cleanup needed. You focus on Blue, okay? Just keep us updated."

"S.I.G." Scarlet nodded.

His cap mic flipped back up into place, and he allowed himself a soft sigh as he closed his eyes, just for a moment. 

This was not the kind of situation he'd ever wanted to be in. Okay, a lot of what he dealt with whilst on duty were situations that he didn't want to be in. But his friends getting hurt was a major recurring one. And very near the top of that list, second only to the absolute worst of possibilities, were two specific things.

One was Magenta suffering an injury that could permanently damage or even destroy his magic.

The other was Blue or Grey damaging their wings to the point that it left them unable to fly. 

Grey had already relearned how to fly once in his life. But as far as Scarlet knew, Blue had never suffered any major injuries to his wings. So a fracture there, even a minor one, was almost definitely a worst fear come true for Blue.

Scarlet may not be a pegasus, but it was a fear he could understand, at least to some degree.

A broken horn, after all, could easily kill a unicorn if severe enough. Knowing that he'd likely heal from it didn't take that fear away.

He needed to focus. Look after Blue, and make sure Grey could find them easily.

"Okay. Adam?" Scarlet said, trying to get Blue's attention again.

The twitch of an ear and a quiet 'hmm?' was the only response he got.

"This might hurt for a moment, but the spell should stick for a while, alright?"

"Yeah, sure," Blue replied, still quiet, but at least he'd used words that time. It was so strange seeing him like this.

Scarlet watched him for a few seconds, but he knew he wasn't going to get anything else from him.

Carefully, very carefully, Scarlet pushed his magic into Blue's injured wing. A little basic telekinesis allowed him to gently move it so that it sat folded against his body. Blue flinched and grit his teeth, but was otherwise silent.

Scarlet didn't have anything to make a sling out of, not until Grey got here, so for now this was the best he could do. He pulled his magic away slowly, not wanting to jostle Blue's injury too much. 

The glow around his horn faded, as did much of the light clinging to Blue's feathers. But there was still a slight shimmer around the point of injury where the painkiller was still active. That should ease the pain Blue was in for a while. At least until they could get proper medicine into him.

A small spark of magic told Scarlet roughly where Grey was. Flying over the forest not too far away. He stood beneath the broken branches, his eyes flicking across the damaged area as he determined how he was going to do this. The gap didn't need to be large. Grey's wingspan was smaller than Blue's, so he didn't need as much space to manoeuvre. But for something like this, even Blue wouldn't need a lot of room. Both were capable of tucking their wings close to fit through tight spaces.

Scarlet's horn lit up, and smaller branches above sparkled with blue light as he moved them carefully, just enough to create an opening in the canopy for a pegasus to fly through. A second bit of magic temporarily locked the moved branches into place. 

Once that was done, the magic around his horn glowed brighter as he pushed more energy into it. The light shifted from his usual pale blue to a bright red, and with one more push, a burst of magic zoomed up past the trees like a shot from a flare gun. Sparkling scarlet against the overcast sky.

Scarlet watched from the ground, and soon saw the familiar silhouette of Grey flying overhead.

Blue was still laying quietly. Scarlet really didn't know what to think of that, but he was worried. Definitely worried.

He wasn't given a chance to dwell on it for long, though, as the flapping of wings above was quickly followed by Grey swooping through the canopy, spreading his wings wide to catch and steady himself, before hovering a few feet off the ground.

"Scarlet," Grey said in a way of greeting, before his eyes drifted to Blue, and he looked as concerned as Scarlet felt. "Is he okay?" he asked as he settled his hooves on the ground and tucked his wings at his sides.

"I think this might be one you'll understand better than me," Scarlet said, not looking away from Blue.

"What do you mean?"

Scarlet finally turned to face Grey. "I think his wing is broken."

Grey's ears flicked back, his gaze drifting back to Blue for a moment, before he sighed and nodded. "Okay. Let's patch him up and get him out of here. The sooner we can get him back to Cloudbase, the better." The worry and shared pain in his eyes betrayed the calm in his voice, but it wasn't something Scarlet could blame him for. Definitely not.

Scarlet glanced up at the trees as he cancelled the spell holding the branches still. The leaves rustled as they snapped back into place. Then he turned his focus to tending to Blue. 

Grey lifted his wing to let Scarlet reach his saddle bag full of first-aid equipment, and Scarlet took everything he'd need before getting to work.

The last time he'd done this had been in a first-aid training session. He'd been working with Blue then, too. Now he was, once again, carefully putting Blue's wing into a sling. But this time, he was dealing with an actual injury. And as with anything, that made it so much worse.

Grey laid down in front of Blue and tried to talk to him. He asked how he was feeling, if anything other than his wing hurt, even simply tried to distract him from what was happening for a moment. Scarlet listened, but Blue didn't really say much. Scarlet wasn't sure if it was fear, or shock, or pain, or all three. But whatever it was, he didn't like it, not one bit.

The journey home had been filled with the excited chatter of his younger brothers. The pilot tuned them out, fixing a benevolent smile on his face while focusing intently on Two’s background E hum in a mostly unsuccessful attempt to ignore the hollow sensation in his gut.

He didn’t understand where the glow had gone.

Sure, he’d started feeling a little wistful recently. Maybe there were only so many emotional reunions a person could witness before they started playing on a slow motion loop in your head like some cheesy 20th century movie montage and lost their novelty.

Anyway, he’d had plenty of run, catch, throw, spin routines with Alan when he was smaller and knew full well that the inevitable tiny-but-solid knee to the stomach or flailing elbow to the jaw made the whole thing less idyllic than it looked.

God forbid he try that now. Alan’s glare as Virgil had reached out to steady his little brother’s slight stumble off Two’s passenger platform earlier that afternoon could have set his eyebrows on fire.

The throbbing pressure in the back of his throat had been subject to a gradual crescendo since they took off and it was beginning to make it difficult to breathe without concentrating. So he concentrated on breathing. He concentrated on flying. And then on landing. And he sorted post flights. And he cleaned up Gordon’s forehead graze. And he rolled his eyes when Gordon told him to “STOP BEING SUCH A MOM, VIRGARONI”.

That was only niggling at him now because it was Gordon’s most stupid nickname yet. For goodness sake, sounds like a type of pasta. He tramped into the locker room and attempted to drown his increasingly foul mood in the shower - full power-hose mode. Extra hot. He lost track of time just a little, tracing the path of grout around the tiles with his eyes, letting the water drill into his skull and wondering whether this was… everything.

Whether his role in life was to preserve and observe and… just that?

That was a pretty awesome role all told. He was preventing families being torn apart, enabling Happiness and Normality for hundreds. It was a PRIVILEGE. Only an awfully selfish person would have any kind of problem with playing his part. And anyway, look at what he had - his incredible siblings who he adored were always close by, a they had a beautiful home and they wanted for nothing. He was objectively the luckiest man alive.

And yet.

He growled in frustration and shut off the water, leaning heavily on the wall for a moment as a wave of wooziness rushed over him. Maybe the shower had been TOO hot. According to his wrinkly fingertips he’d been here wasting time for far too long. The others would start wondering where he’d got to.

Clothes. Style hair. Happy face on. Up to the lounge.

The lounge was empty. But there was the piano.

Music would make it better, it always did.

Picking something generically soothing - Beethoven’s Moonlight - Virgil focussed intently on the subtlety of the rhythm, recalling his Mom perched next to him on this very stool, explaining it wasn’t as simple as the length of the notes but the different stress on each. She’d had him reciting “pineapple pineapple pineapple” as he played.

He remembered his dad standing behind them, placing an arm around both their shoulders and giving a squeeze as he made some kind of fruit-based pun Virgil could no longer bring to mind. Mom had poked her husband in the ribs, mocked him for his dad jokes and pulled him in for a kiss. Pre-teen Virgil had squirmed with embarrassment but the sweet moment had stuck with him and he’d hoped maybe one day…

With a discordant crunch his hands came to a halt. He clearly needed to play something that required more brainpower to shut down this ridiculous self-pitying Nonsense.

He half stood and reached into the piano stool to extract the book of advanced technical exercises John had bought him a couple of years back. They were fiendish, defied any sense of predictable pattern and the modal shifts set his teeth on edge. That should do it.

Time passed. It did not pass quickly. Half an hour or possibly decades went by and all he had achieved was a twitchy tingle in his left ring finger and the start of a tension headache. The cold, empty feeling had intensified. He shook his hands violently to shift the cramp and turned the page.

There was a soft cough behind him.

“That was… different?”

“It’s called training, Scott. Agility exercises. If I don’t do these I can’t expect to play the fancy stuff.” Virgil’s eyes widened slightly as he heard his own snappish tone.

“Sure, it’s just I could do with sorting some paperwork and so would you mind playing something a little less… uh… like… that?”

The part of Virgil that lived to keep his big brother sane slapped himself upside the head for being so self-absorbed. He looked up and arranged his face into an obliging smile.

“Of course, sorry. You want jazz or some kind of chilled filmic stuff or…?”

Scott’s wink and finger guns indicated relaxing film scores were the order of the day and so Virgil delivered. It was all going very well, he was definitely calming down and everything was fine. And not a Scott Tracy fake ‘Fine’ either, he cast a sidelong glance at his brother who appeared to be typing away peacefully. He transitioned into a lilting F# minor theme and went heavy on the sustain pedal to allow the higher notes to resonate through the room. Leaning back and closing his eyes, he shut all the silliness firmly away and began to enjoy himself.

Until a particular chord progression seemed to flick a switch in his soul and every hair on the back of his arms shivered to attention as a shard of ice slid down his spine.

His fingers sprang off the keys lifting the tune out through the high chords as it took on a life of its own - an insistent, yearning melody. A gasp escaped him as he found he couldn’t get enough oxygen into his lungs - the villa faded out and he was grounded only by his fingertips returning again and again to the familiar rise and fall of black on white.

The ball of tension that had formed behind his eyes flooded down through his veins and out through his hands like poison sucked from a wound. The ache of loneliness - the longing… the surge of grief for what could never be - he forced it all down his arms and out into the wild, transformed into melody, pulse, rhythm to whirl past his bowed head and soar into the rafters and… away.

Virgil let his fingers rest on the keys as the last notes faded, gradually becoming aware of the tremor in his hands. Exhaustion swept over him and he shivered, realising his shirt was soaked with perspiration.

Silence but for the pounding of his own heartbeat in his ears.

Then, a hand on his cheek, thumb brushing away tears he had no recollection of forming. He released the breath he was holding and leaned into the touch with a sigh, eventually dragging his eyelids ajar.

Scott’s other hand settled on his shoulder as he crouched next to the piano stool, blue eyes full of questions and concern.

They stared at each other for a long moment. Virgil cleared his throat and began reaching for some appropriately reassuring words.

A earth-shatteringly loud screech startled them both as Gordon sprinted across the room trailing shaving foam with a furious Abominable-Snowman-Alan hot on his heels.

Virgil scraped his scattered emotions back into submission and watched Scott’s expression as his big brother decided to put a pin in the Tinies-wrangling for later and turned back to him. Some kind of explanation was clearly required here but Virgil found himself unable to add any more weight to the burden his brother already carried.

And so for the first time in a decade Virgil told his best friend a deliberate lie.

“I was just thinking about Mom”

🎵💚🎵💙🎵💚🎵💙🎵💚🎵💙🎵💚🎵

Maybe TBC? I should really fix them…

Note: Feel free to pick your own hauntingly heartbreaking film theme to knock Virgil over with (there are many that would fit!). The one that gave me the ice treatment the other day and I haven’t been able to get out of my head since is here.

(It’s all going well until about 40 seconds in then it whallops him)

🎵💚🎵💙🎵💚🎵💙🎵💚🎵💙🎵💚🎵

Part 2, Part 3

Virgil was definitely avoiding him.

It wasn’t that they hadn’t seen each other - they’d worked together perfectly normally on several rescues. They’d both joined in the usual banter over mealtimes. There had even been a family film night - albeit, instead of joining Scott on their usual couch, Virgil had squeezed in with the Tinies and spent the evening competing with Gordon as to who could wind up Alan the most about his movie choice.

But they’d not been alone in the same room. At least, not for more than the few seconds it took for Virgil to make some excuse and leave it.

He’d even apparently conscripted Gordon into constantly keeping him company whilst he did maintenance on Two. Despite all Scott’s loitering around the hangar, the Fish never seemed to get the hint to make himself scarce. Except that one time when Scott had hinted at the availability of leftover pizza in the kitchen but then Virgil had raced off hot on Gordon’s heels. Which would not have been of any note whatsoever if it hadn’t been for that momentary flash of panic Scott was sure had crossed Virgil’s face as Gordon jumped to his feet.

It wasn’t just the lost chance to really TALK to his brother either. There was a physical distance too which was almost more painful. It turned out that Virgil’s elbow nudges at dinner, his arm across Scott’s shoulders as they walked across the lounge, his habit of stretching out and throwing his feet over big brother’s legs when they had a moment to chill together on the couch… these felt as natural and as essential to Scott as eating or drinking and he missed it more than he could have explained. It made his jaw hurt.

He had figured he just had to give Virgil time and be available when he was ready. So he’d made a conscious effort to *not* be working whenever they had downtime, hovering in the communal areas and looking un-busy. He rushed through the paperwork later, once everyone was in bed and then stayed up for hours each night studying the last couple of month’s worth of mission logs and recordings, desperately trying to work out what had triggered… whatever it was… the other day.

He’d been lying, Scott was certain of that. Ironically that certainty had made him very uncertain of everything else - Virgil never lied to him. He was awful at it. Honesty usually shone out of his big puppy-like brown eyes. When he was withholding something they were clouded with guilt.

But to invoke their mother’s memory as a cover-up?

It must have been serious.

His research efforts turned up nothing at all out of the ordinary other than it had actually been a pretty successful run of rescues, a bit of a reprieve from the average. He couldn’t find any aspect of the scenarios they’d faced that seemed like it might have particularly upset his brother.

It had to have something to do with him. Virgil was acting perfectly normally with everyone else. He re-listened to every interaction they’d had over the comm. Had he been too brusque in directing the rescues recently? Was his tone wrong? He didn’t think he sounded any different although after a while his own voice really began to grate on him. Virgil’s responses seemed normal and he didn’t appear to react to anything in a negative way. Perhaps his brother was maybe a little quieter on the comm than usual… should he have noticed that sooner?

Or had he embarrassed him by making it clear he’d noticed him getting carried away that afternoon? But Virgil had never seemed to be worried about Scott witnessing his piano binges before - most of the worst more-recovery-than-rescue missions had been thrashed out on the piano over the years… No. The only way to find out was to ask him directly.

He hovered at the door of the hangar, took a couple of breaths to slow his galloping heart rate and pushed it ajar. He could hear Gordon talking at a mile a minute about something to do with aquaculture and Virgil was leaning up against a pod module with a politely interested look on his face. His eyes flicked briefly over to his eldest brother but didn’t linger, instead focussing firmly back on little brother with renewed focus.

Scott felt rather like he’d taken a grapple to the chest and backed out, closing the door softly behind him. He ignored the elevator and elected for the long slow trudge up the stairwell. By the time he made it to the lounge his vision was blurry and he had reached the limit of what he could bear. He found a sheet of notepaper from the desk drawer and scribbled a note. He folded it precisely in half, opened it again and checked it, then refolded it, running a shaking thumb along the edge. He tucked it underneath the door to his brother’s bedroom on the way to his own.

Virgil, I’ve upset you and I can’t for the life of me work out when or how it was in order to apologise properly - but please know I am so sorry.

I’ll be on my balcony the rest of the evening if you want to talk.

I miss you. S x

🎵💚🎵💙🎵💚🎵💙🎵💚🎵💙🎵💚🎵

Not that he wasn’t eaten up with guilt about it anyway. There was a good reason he was never deliberately untruthful with Scott - it felt like a betrayal even if he knew it was for the best. He was a horrible liar at the best of times, and now he could feel his face burning whenever his brother caught his eye. Every time Scott spoke to him, Virgil’s treacherous heart jumped into his mouth and he was almost overcome by the need to confess everything.

Not that there was much to tell.

Except that he was a fool who needed to get a grip and be grateful.

With stealth borne out of years of practice he crept on silent feet past the rooms of his younger brothers and paused at his own, glancing over at Scott’s. A prickle of… something ran through him and he was seized by the sudden urge to burst in and demand a big bro hug. It had been a few days, in fact, since his last. But Scott slept little enough as it was. Tomorrow, then.

Gosh he was tired. He opened the door and made a beeline for the bathroom, beginning to pull his shirt over his head as he walked. He became vaguely aware of a rustling noise from the vicinity of his right foot and shook it irritably, failing to shed whatever had got stuck to his sock. Flannel tangled over his face he reached down and removed the sock, random scrap of paper and all and abandoned it behind him. 

Once the grease was washed from his hands and teeth thoroughly brushed he drifted back into the bedroom and went to stand at the window. He squinted into the grey, his eyes finding nothing to focus on as the low lying cloud reflected the light from his bedside table straight back at him. He shivered, despite the villa’s consistent, comfortable temperature.

Tracy Island’s sub-tropical winters were very mild compared to those he’d experienced growing up, but the cooler temperatures combined with the frequent sea mists still made him long to hibernate. He pulled the blinds down and shut it out.

Flicking through the playlist on his tablet, he sought a track guaranteed to send him extra quickly into the land of nod for who knew how long he had before a rescue dragged him back into unwelcome consciousness. He smiled with satisfaction as he hit play on the snooze-jackpot - a soaring violin solo by a British composer - and collapsed face first on to his pillow to enjoy the fine arcs of spring green sound swoop and flutter around him like the songbird it celebrated.

And relax.

He was just on the edge of sleep and beginning to drool slightly when the change in texture brought by the woodwind entry nudged him awake again and he realised something was niggling at his sense of peace. With a huff he turned on to his side and opened his eyes. What had he forgotten?

The sock stared back at him.

Virgil considered himself a fairly tidy person, nothing on the military precision of his father or eldest brother but preferring a significant level of order higher than the younger two. An abandoned sock wouldn’t usually bother him however but, well, turned out a lot of irrelevant things were apparently bothering him lately.

He slid out of bed and commando crawled over to the sock in order to banish it to the laundry basket. It made a unexpected crinkly sort of noise and he pulled out the paper, realising with surprise it was a sheet of the fancy monogrammed stuff his dad had stockpiled long ago but nobody ever used in this digital age. Curious.

Humming to himself, he unfolded the note and the bottom fell out of the world.

A week’s worth of dropped eye-contact and excuses slammed into him like a runaway freight train. The background music was drowned out by a sudden high pitched ringing in his ears and a nausea that threatened to overwhelm his senses as he suddenly saw his attempts to hide the truth from his brother’s perspective. He looked at his watch and swore profusely - 3am.

How could he have been so short-sighted? So selfish? Of course Scott would interpret Virgil’s avoidance of him as a failing of his own. 

And he knew… he KNEW his big brother experienced rejection as physical pain. He may as well have kicked Scott in the stomach. In fact, that would have undoubtedly been less cruel.

He struggled back into his discarded clothes, panic making him clumsy and his mind flooded with memories of seeking out his trembling brother in the hayloft. Of finding his hero curled up in agony, borderline incoherent and paralysed by the conviction he’d let their overworked and well-meaning but infuriatingly oblivious father down *again*. That he’d never be good enough. 

It had always been Virgil’s job to look him in the eye and promise him that he was.

Not as much had altered in their adulthood as Scott seemed to believe, except that his over-achieving brother hid that pain better from the world. From everyone except Virgil. Because that certainly hadn’t changed - Virgil would always be there for Scott, would always hear that hitch in his breath, the subtle change in the melody of his voice. He would always catch him as he fell, would always seek him out and would never leave him alone.

Until now.

It must have cost his brother so much to write that note and Virgil had just… not showed up.

Stealth abandoned he raced to Scott’s door, only just restraining himself from barging straight through it - he might be peacefully asleep… maybe.

He cracked open the door and recoiled as a blade of cold damp air rushed into his face. 

The room was empty. Bedclothes neat and smoothed down, fluffy scatter cushions at 45 degree angle to the bottom edge of the pillow and… an ancient guitar propped up against the headboard. That gave Virgil pause, Scott hadn’t got that out in… a long time. He reached out and brushed his index finger across the strings. It was in tune. He’d been playing then? 

His attention was caught by the curtains billowing from the open balcony door, the luxurious material making a low whomp whomp whomp as it flapped back and forth.

His brother had returned from duty with an Air Force zero tolerance approach to clutter but a very definite inclination towards soft furnishings. He shuddered to imagine why.

Surely he wasn’t still out there at this time? In this weather?

Thrusting the drapes aside he all but threw himself on to the balcony, the exasperated reprimand almost on its way out of his lips before his brain caught up with the fact that both easy chairs were distinctly empty. Two glasses and a bottle of Virgil’s favourite whisky waited on the table between them. Unopened.

His hands white-knuckled on the balcony rail, as he peered out into the mist, racking his mind for where Scott could be - maybe he would have taken a hazardous, self-punishing run up the volcano? Would he have gone to hide on the beach? There were caves down there and some of them were tidal, would his brother be thinking straight enough to choose a safe place to tuck himself away? His heart hammered against his rib cage as he tried to work out where to start. Should he call John?

He half raised his arm to activate his comm and froze as the faintest of sounds interrupted his train of thought - a shuddering breath and a whisper of a sigh.

Virgil spun around and his already compromised ventricles were strangled even further as the shadow tucked into the tiny space between the far lounger, the wall and an outsized plant pot resolved itself into a tight ball of limbs and a pale chin just visible beneath an oversized hoodie. 

How like his commanding tower of a brother to try to make himself small.

🎵💚🎵💙🎵💚🎵💙🎵💚🎵💙🎵💚🎵

Little music vibe note: the piece Virgil chooses is The Lark Ascending by Vaughan Williams

All the love to @sofasurf @astranite @womble1 @hebuiltfive for incitement their encouragement, sense checking and specifically detailed discussion of soft furnishings.