Fanfics mostly

Hero of his Time.

Memories creep back into my head like children wary of punishment for their truancy.

We're back, and there's a cask o' quintessence to find!

Join me for the next part of an episode of our favourite show, but written as if in 1607 rather than 1967, with love, as ever, to Andersons and Shakespeare all.

ACT IV

SCENE I. Dutton’s Yard.

Enter SCARLET and BLUE astride a Pursuant Engine.

SCARLET

And hath the Watch the streets anon all clear’d?

BLUE

Alas, nought but our present environs,

Full London guard could not ‘gainst Mysterons.

Enter OCHRE, above.

OCHRE

John Johnson Yard, more John-a-dreams doth seem:

No quintessential casket be there here.

BLUE

A Spectrum green, my yellow garter’d friend.

Exit OCHRE.

Right well you know what this doth now portend.

SCARLET

Know right anon we shall, mark, there it is.

A little powder clears us of this door.

Alarum. A cannon shot from the Pursuant Engine. the quintessential waggon is revealed. Enter WHITE above.

BLUE

My liege, the powder flask we do locate.

In manner which can this petard placate?

WHITE

Our wise librarian did I consult,

‘Tis meddlesome, the hour hath slipp’d too far.

Provision in the almanac was made:

A plot some ten miles from your station hence,

Where carpenters and masons do await,

New excavation so they will create.

Anon will you this waggon there escort,

A league beneath the ground can it report.

You comprehend my drift, good Captain Blue?

BLUE

Our Spectrum now is Green, my colonel, aye.

WHITE

The streets all hereabout the Watch hath cleared,

But nineteen minutes left, so tis afear’d.

But one more thing, now mark, good Captain Blue,

Brave Scarlet rides this waggon, without you.

BLUE

My liege, I-

WHITE

‘Fore God. Good fortune, Captain.

SCARLET

Lead on, for you to pilot is no sense,

I, indestructible, drive quintessence.

This is the second of a two-part supernatural horror concept that came to me a few weeks go. You can find Part 1 here.

Gordon dumped himself exasperatedly onto the couches in the sunken living room with a loud groan. Walking past him, was Virgil, still in uniform, who snorted at the adorned sight of his tired little brother. He leans over the side to lightly ruffle the younger’s hair before leaving to make a beeline for the piano. Scott soon follows from behind him, heading for the stairs; his visible hobble from weeks ago has almost completely disappeared.

“Nice work out there, today!” He congratulates in hopes of sparking up a conversation, which results in a pleasurably smile from the musician brother who has made his way towards the game room where the piano stands.

“Thanks!” Virgil smiles as he settles himself down onto the piano stool, lifting up the cover gently from its hinges. A light sparks in his eyes and he whips his head round to Scott. “Not bad yourself!” He replies sarcastically with a wide grin.

Scott scoffs at the response, coming around to Virgil’s side to drop an elbow over the other’s shoulders. “It won't be long now before I’m back in the air again, you know.”

Virgil’s limbs drop loosely to his sides as he leans backwards into Scott’s partial embrace. “Oh man,” he sighs, “I can't wait to have you back… This is a nightmare without the extra manpower.”

Speaking of manpower, Gordon interrupts the two with an added question: “Hey, when does Alan get back?” His voice slightly echoing from the distance between him in the lounge to the game room where the other brothers rest.

There’s an interrupting beep from the console in the centre of the lounge, John’s face pops up with an ever stoic smile. “Thunderbird Three has only been gone for two days, Gordon.”

“Well, can he hurry?”

“That depends: Do you want our deep space astronaut to go head to toe with an astroid field?”

Gordon frowns, accepting defeat, he stands up, sighing as he leaves the living room to round the corner. “I’m going to sleep,” he sombrely announces before leaving.

Scott lets out a small chuckle and ambles away from Virgil, returning to the console. “And, how are you, Thunderbird Five?”

John doesn't miss a beat when he looks Scott directly in the eyes and answers bleakly with: “Tired.”

Unfortunately for him, the Commander notices the lack of hesitation in the response and ponders. He grimly nods with a following hum of apprehension. “Then we’ll have International Rescue step down for the night. No more taking calls, Five; Get some rest.”

“I can’t rest yet, Scott. I need to make sure Alan gets home.”

Where John had expected his Commander to convince him to stop; Scott, instead, sighed. “FAB, John. Just promise me you’ll eat something, and update me if anything happens. I’m going to go downstairs and grab the guys some food.”

A breath of relief silently escapes the Chief of Communication’s diaphragm. “FAB, Scott. Take care.” He signs out.

Upon the disappearance of John’s virtual presence, Scott sighs softly while turning back again to make his way downstairs. A glint of pride shines through his eyes just from the thought of Alan returning home after such a successful mission. John’s determination to bring the young hero back home safely was as much of a welcomed effort as the idea of seeing Thunderbird Three descending from the sky.

He brings himself to leave the living room, giving the pianist brother a small, passing smile as he walks past to head downstairs, where the kitchen is. Virgil pays no mind; he had overheard the previous conversation, aware that the elder had plans to return with snacks.

Despite not wanting food, Virgil stays seated. After all, it has been a while since the two of them had spent any quality time together. With the Commander’s ankle injury, and Alan off planet, handling field work has became tedious as of late.

With his hands on the piano keys, his posture settled upright, Virgil lets his thoughts drift. A warm, dark sound plays from the large piano. It has been weeks since the big brother had hurt his ankle; weeks of cardio only returning progress in slow parts.

To pass the time from being cooped alone at home, Scott found a way to make himself useful by stealing some of the island’s maintenance robots’ jobs. Small chores; like preparing food, tidying personal spaces, replacing and refilling water bottles across the house; became personal missions with the reward of gratitude and fulfilment. The family had never been more hopeful for their older brother, despite that, they were very excited for the day where he could return to the field as their commander once again.

The sound of platter smashing echoes from the staircase, it startles Virgil enough to halt his piano session abruptly. His head snaps up towards the sound of the crash. Did Scott accidentally drop whatever food he had been carrying? He waits a moment, expecting a call for help, only for the minute to pass in silence.

“Scott?” He calls out.

Except there is no response. The silence forces chilling sensation down through his bloodstream. He hurries to stand and rushes to the staircase. “Scott!?” A graphic image of his older brother collapsed on the staircase momentarily fades in and out of his mind like an attack against his hope. He curses his imagination for being extreme.

He approaches the stairway, slowly strutting closer to the edge. “Scott, are you okay?” Only to reach the end and find no Scott Tracy, but instead tray with two smashed bowl of what looked to be noodles and hot soup. At the bottom of the stairs, is a confused Gordon rounding the corner, looking up at Virgil; they make eye contact, both sharing similar expressions of bewilderment.

Gordon blinks at him, expecting the elder to say something, except with the two brothers thrown so off guard by their eldest’s surprise vanishing act, neither says anything for at least a little longer. Then eventually, Gordon asks first: “Did… Did you see him leave from your end?”

Virgil shakes his head. “No, he didn’t come up here… Did you…?”

Gordon responds with his own head shake.

They give each other another moment of thoughtless confusion. Until finally, Virgil raises his watch, turning it on, to where a hologram flickers to life. “Thunderbird Five, Scott just did something weird on us, can you scan the house for-”

“Virgil!” John shouts instead, cutting him off in alarm. “Alan is gone!”

“What!?” Both brothers yelp unanimously. Gordon rushes upstairs, agile footwork sidestepping the crashed food in desperation to get to the top.

“Not just that, but I’m getting hundreds of simultaneous distress calls all over the globe!”

“What? Just now!?”

“Where is Scott?! I can’t reach him-” They watch the hologram of their astronaut brother swish around in zero gravity to dart to another side of his control room. “There are live reports all over the world that hundreds upon thousands of civilians just vanishing in the blink of an eye! And I think Alan’s one of them too! International Rescue is overwhelmed!”

“How did this happen, John?” Virgil attempts to remain calm.

“The heck if I know!” He shouts back, turning upright with his arms splayed about, most likely multitasking over a dozen different hologram panels. “Whatever this is, has happened to Alan and his crew. I have access to Thunderbird Three’s console and I detect no lifesigns- except five seconds ago, there was a lifesign in the cargobay! It’s like he just blinked out of existence! I don’t know what to do! This is unnatural! I don’t know how this- I-”

“John!” Someone yells.

“The public distress calls are claiming that the vanished victims are dead! But they’re not dead! People can’t just vanish out of life! I don’t know what to do!”

“John, The World Council has just broadcasted an emergency announcement on every frequency.”

“What are they saying, Eos?”

——

Scott held the two ceramic bowls of soup and noodles steady on the metal tray as he cautiously strutted up the stairs, careful to not let his ankle give out. A few weeks ago, this would’ve been a tedious act, he’s almost impressed with himself to have made it to the top without so much as a hitch. Virgil and Grandma are going to be so proud of him for not needing supervision during the whole journey up.

A happy Monday to you all,

'Pon Captain Scarlet we do call

Join me once again as, with nothing but love and admiration for the Andersons and Shakespeare both, we ask what if Century 17, not Century 21, had produced our belovèd show.

SCENE II. The same.

Enter WHITE, BLUE, SCARLET and GREEN.

WHITE

Full twice have we this testimony read.

BLUE

The more is said the less is known, my lord.

WHITE

And yet, this script, ‘tis all that we possess.

SCARLET

Cartographers did with me late confirm,

Two thousand cellars under London bide,

That near to written testimony come.

WHITE

Sirrah, I have small care if it be two thousand thousands! Yon quintessential casket must be found erelong!

A double-meaning somewhere in his words,

With double-reading surely shall be found.

If this by afternoon doth stand unsolv’d,

In quintessence shall London be dissolv’d.

SCARLET and BLUE sit. Enter Mysterons above.

Mysterons

But three hours in petard’s glass,

Fleetingly this time will pass.

An Spectrum do this cask locate,

A riddle new this doth create:

No time this casket to disarm,

What manner else to forbear harm?

London in its final hours,

Right assur’d, revenge of ours.

Exeunt Mysterons.

WHITE

I would anon the alchemists’ report,

Of Macey’s weeds as they did study them.

GREEN

And such report have I but late receiv’d.

Alack, ‘tis nothing of import or aid.

WHITE

I know in something do we miss the mark.

BLUE

Mark me, methinks I mark our mark but now.

The ninth of Macey’s clauses do recall,

Lieutenant, prithee, for us do recount.

GREEN

The record can I reduce for you now:

‘Fantastical though I know it doth seem,

Assurèdly did I hear bells thirteen.

Hold, chide me not, I full know what I heard,

This Macey reckon’d right, be it averr’d:

How long asleep was Macey not aware

And so the bells were reckon’d with great care.’

SCARLET

On such a fearful night as Macey’s was,

I reckon you would misreckon withal.

BLUE

Grant this be so, and reckon him upright:

That thirteen bells by Macey were so heard,

What explanation can there be but this?

WHITE

Methinks our minds do jump in one accord.

Lieutenant Green, make haste, a London chart,

A circle on the parchment with a quill.

Arithmetic of yours, how far is’t call’d?

BLUE

Two-hundred-fifty leagues in but an hour,

A statute mile from where good Paul doth stand,

Belike should say ‘St Paul's’, not Scarlet good.

A statute mile and not a cubit more.

WHITE

This charter’d circle doth one mile present,

How many cellars in its compass found?

GREEN

But two that do the testimony match.

The first by name John Johnson Yard is known,

And Dutton’s Yard the other one is nam’d.

BLUE

Be not amazed good Captain, let’s away!

SCARLET

You bid me follow yet I follow not.

I lack sound understanding of your drift.

BLUE

Sound understanding, understanding sound.

When all is done, my reas’ning will I sound.

WHITE

In one hour London does our foe confound!

I love the waves!!!

I love the waves!!!

An azure gem in South Pacific blue, A paradise concealed from public view. Where Wright’s organic lines meet high frontier, And International Rescue engineers the year.

The villa clings to raw volcanic stone, A subterranean, brutalist haven zone. With cantilevered platforms, open floors, That seamlessly erase the glass-walled doors.

Beneath the lounge where the palm trees sway, The kinetic marvels are hidden away. Where mid-century luxury, sleek and low, Masks the massive nuclear depths below.

The pool slides back with a smooth, silent grace, So Thunderbird 1 can shoot into space. The runway tilts and palm trees recline, A flawless marriage of function and line.

No neon flashes, no cluttered display, Just clean, modern lines in shades of cool grey. A tropical fortress of retro-cool pride, Where high-fashion living has rocket power inside.

To children watching from a screen of old, This secret world of science turned to gold. Beyond the cramped, suburban brick and lace, It opened up a thrilling, space-age place.

Each ordinary chair or painted wall Became a lever to a hangar hall. The mundane objects in a living room Transformed to triggers for a rocket boom.

They saw the jet-set style and raw machine Combine into the playground of their dreams. With papier-mâché and cardboard boxes made, The blueprint for a generation played.

"Five, Four, Three, Two, One!" the countdown clears, As Barry Gray’s brass anthem fills their ears. Through wires unseen, the puppets walk with pride, But it’s the massive scale that lives inside. For Meddings’ rolling skies and chemical fire Lifted a childhood’s dreams a whole lot higher. An Anderson creation, bold and bright: "Stand by for action!" in the neon night.

"Where" is a place, like where you are. "Were" is the past tense of "to be," like you were reading this list. "We're" is the contraction of "we are."

"Their" is a thing or concept belonging to a person, like their book or their justified anger. "There" is a place.

"To" is a conjunction, or a word used to make other words work. For example, you don't "go the store," you go to the store. "Too" is either an intensifier indicating an excess of something (like "too dark," "too cold," "too long"), or a word meaning "also" (like "I want to go, too"). They are not interchangeable.

--"a couple" is explicitly two. "A few" is three to five (unless you're using it for comedic effect, like describing a horde of ten thousand orcs as "a few").

And finally, a few that don't get discussed all that much these days but they'll make me very happy if you know them:

--"less" is for abstract, "fewer" is for concrete. I get less and less happy when I have fewer and fewer books.

--"can" is for ability, "may" is for permission, and the two have mostly become synonymous BUT if you're writing an old or uptight character, or a period piece, that change is recent enough you should still do it the "right" way.

But I am also close to finishing the first draft of my very first piece of fan fiction in what is, frankly, 30 years.

I am simultaneously excited and nervous. It started of all things from a routine, teacher moment I had last week. This became a sentence, which became a paragraph which has become a 13 page Google Doc, as it does.

We do a lot of descriptive and transactional writing to prepare for exams, far less narrative. I worry how stuck in that mode I've become, but we'll see.

Anyhow, it needs some more time and then a really hefty edit, which Mrs Geoluread has said she's looking forward to helping me with.

Stand by for action. I haven't settled on a title yet, but the WIP title is Serenity. This tiny snippet should at least give you an idea of the main character.

And she had had so many questions, questions beyond all the ones she was already expected to have in that moment.

But one question became more urgent than ever:

me, an elder fandom veteran, suddenly having anne rice flashbacks:

no.

NO.

starting to rock back and fourth.

you do not understand.

you were born into an age of peace. i was there Gandalf. i was there three thousand years ago. i remember the cease and desists. i remember authors hunting fanfic writers for sport. i remember when every fic opened with a disclaimer because we genuinely thought it might protect us.

we do not charge money for the copyrighted gay wizard stories.

do not tempt fate youngling.

step away from the paywall.

that is how you summon the ancient evils.