#thunderbird-one-ai

Except Scott wasn’t stuck. Scott had the opposite problem, with a mangled jetpack that had taken the brunt of the damage for him, but not enough to prevent a smashed arm and a vacuum determined to fling him out into the far reaches of the void. From what John could tell, his brother’s suit had held, but there was a hairline crack across his oxygen supply. His own HUD was warning of damage, too. As it stood, neither of them had enough air left to wait for Thunderbird Three to launch and find them, even if they assumed EOS had alerted Alan the moment of the implosion.

The only free limb John had was fully extended, hand clutched like a vice around his brother’s and keeping him from being sucked away.

The problem was that they each only had one good arm. Scott’s broken arm was out of reach, too injured even for Scott to fight against the vacuum dragging it away. John only needed one arm to dig himself out and patch up wherever the breach in his suit was.

Except that one arm was the only thing tethering Scott in place. In order to free himself, to save himself, he’d have to let go.

The realisation occurred to them at the same time. John saw it in the widening of his big brother’s eyes, large and blue and a little afraid, for all that Scott would never admit it. A beat and sky blue hardened to sapphire in a way that was painfully familiar. Scott, big brother, Commander, had made a decision.

John’s anguished heart cried out.

“No!” he exploded, desperation lacing through the single syllable. “Don’t let go. Don’t you dare let go, Scott.” They’d find a way out of this. Together. They had to.

The fingers entwined with his slackened. Tracy Stubbornness ran through them all, but like so many things, Scott had inherited the lion’s share. Still, hard sapphire melted into something softer. No regret, because of course Scott didn’t have any room for that when there was a brother’s life on the line, but the same love that coursed through every action he made.

The love that would lead him to sacrifice himself, if it meant he could save a brother.

Scott’s lips moved, but there was blood rushing through John’s ears, drowning out everything else. Whatever Scott had to say was lost to the void of space, but he was smiling, the stupid, stupid idiot.

John tightened his grip on his brother’s fingers, white-knuckled below the neoprene gloves of his suit, but Gordon had learnt his slippery nature from somewhere. Strong fingers, safe fingers, seemed to vanish, ghosting out of his hold no matter how hard he tried to stop them, and then he was alone.

“Scott!” The scream that tore itself from his throat was raw, flooded with emotion – grief, fear, fury.

He couldn’t see his brother anywhere, the tall, strong figure that was always there gone in the blink of an eye, stolen by a venting ship and the unforgiving vacuum of space.

But John was a Tracy, through and through, and he had that same old Tracy Stubbornness. Self-sacrifice might have been the answer, but it was still the wrong answer, and John refused to let things end that way.

Refused to let Scott go the same way as Dad, lost forever without even a body to bury.

First, he needed to get himself out of the wreckage. With one hand stuck and the other gripping onto his brother’s hand, it had been impossible. Now, he had a hand free, and while the knowledge of why his hand was free made the nausea swell, John had always clung to logic.

Logic dictated that he use his free hand to dig the rest of him out.

The red lights blared across the HUD, reminding him that his suit was torn and would vent faster the moment there was no more pressure keeping it pinned. Patching that would take valuable time, time that was fleeing like sand from a broken hourglass. Could John risk it, explode on his way on empty lungs and not breathing until he’d caught up with Scott?

His gut said he had to.

Logic told him no.

His brain told him the longer he thought about it, the more time he wasted.

John’s family relied on their gut. Seat of the pants decisions was a requirement for International Rescue, when a split second made the difference between life and death. John himself could make logic-based decisions in a snap second, but a snap second still wasn’t a split second, and he didn’t have time.

He exhaled. Tensed.

Heaved.

The vacuum claimed him the moment he was free, hurtling him through the void of space faster than he could calculate. Far faster than he could control.

Immediately he could feel his oxygen depleting, suit venting atmosphere rapidly enough to kill him in seconds.

Time was not on John’s side.

Physics was.

The suction had hurtled Scott away. The same suction had control of John. A little extra momentum, a kick in the right direction…

His exosuit was battered and damaged, but just like John, it wasn’t dead yet. One final spurt, a splutter of a thrust, and the uncontrollable rocket that was John Tracy sped up.

Vision blurred, darkened, and that could be the lack of air or just space at high velocity. He didn’t have the mental processing available to decipher which it was. He had nothing, except Scott, somewhere in hopefully this direction. Had to be in this direction, because there were no second chances.

Was barely a first chance.

He didn’t see what he slammed into, but it was something and running on nothing but autopilot he clung on. His lungs were burning, he needed to breathe, needed to cut the exosuit’s acceleration, needed to patch the breached neoprene.

His breath tickled Jeff’s collarbone, a reassurance that he was still alive even though he was slumped over and not moving.  Not pulling himself upright, not standing straight and proud and shrugging it all off as nothing.  Jeff couldn’t see his face; he had no idea if Scott was still conscious.  Something told him he wasn’t.

He hadn’t hesitated to use himself as a shield, and that terrified Jeff.  He’d always been proud of Scott’s selflessness, the way he’d put others’ needs before his own, but now the doubt started creeping in.  Why was Scott so selfless?  How many times had he risked himself to save someone else?  Did he ever put himself first?

Did Scott even realise how precious he was?

There was some bias in Jeff’s opinion, he knew that.  He was his father, of course Scott was one of the most precious things in his world.  But that changed nothing.  Scott was irreplaceable, both in his family and to the world that owed him a debt he’d never acknowledge, and it was irreplaceable young man that Jeff held in his arms, warm liquid trickling down his wrists and leaving lines of fire behind.

“Scott.”  His voice broke and his knees buckled.  It was barely a controlled fall as he sank to his knees, eldest child a ragdoll in his arms.  “No. Scott.”

Once upon a time, Jeff had been a first responder, but there had been eight long years of solitude and as of yet, no recapped training.  Instincts screamed at him to do something, but his mind had gone blank and all he could do was clutch his son to his chest as his own breath juddered with the promise of sobs.

“Why?” he asked, the word spilling from dry, clumsy lips.  “For me-  You-  Scott.”  Scott had his whole life ahead of him.  He shouldn’t be discarding it so easily for a damaged man whose remaining years were numbered.  Not for him.

Scott didn’t respond.  Jeff couldn’t see his face, not when he was clutching him so tightly, but the breath on his skin was still there, still too slow and even for him to be conscious.

A hand landed on his shoulder.  Firm, enough to bruise, and he knew without looking who it was.  There was only one son that didn’t treat him like he was made of glass.

“Dad, you have to let go.”  Virgil was there, too, fussing and trying to get him to relinquish his grip.  “Dad, I can’t stop the bleeding like this.”

The hand on his shoulder lifted, and instead fingers were tugging at his, forcing him to let go.  It hurt, but not as much as his heart did at the sight of Virgil manoeuvring his brother onto a stretcher, compression packs deployed to slow the bleeding as his middle son once again proved he’d inherited his grandmother’s aptitude for healing.

Virgil wasn’t paying him any attention; Jeff understood that.  After all, it was Scott that was hurt, Scott who needed the help, and Scott who his brothers would always look to first.

That had been a bitter pill to swallow once he was home and realised his sons now listened to Scott over him.

The firm hands were back on his shoulder now, and he looked up at the other present son.  Amber eyes were alight with familiar fire - for someone so attuned to water, his eyes could blaze like an inferno.

“You have to stop him.”  Another other son would be offering platitudes - not your fault, he’s always like this, he’ll be fine - but not Gordon.  It wasn’t the first time this topic had come up, but Jeff had always dismissed it.  Scott had just been looking after his brothers like he always did; of course he worried about it, but Scott had always been that way and despite the near-misses, that had been what they were - misses.

Now on the receiving end of Scott’s self-sacrificing nature himself, Gordon’s demands that he get Scott to back off sounded less like a whining child complaining because big brother got in the way again and more like a true fear.  Jeff hated himself for it; he’d forgotten Gordon was all grown up now and wouldn’t be prone to dramatics just for the sake of attention.

How many times had Scott thrown himself in front of his brothers?  How many times had his other sons been in his exact position, terrified that they’d just been the reason that beautiful, precious, young man had breathed his last?

“How?” he rasped.  Scott had been selfless for as long as he could remember; how could some old man past his prime possibly get him to stand aside when he thought he could do something about it?

The raging inferno died down, leaving something a little sad in its place, and Gordon pulled him to his feet, an assistance that also felt like a message.

“You’re his hero,” he said, as though those words didn’t pierce Jeff’s already aching heart and twist it all around.  “If anyone can get through to him, it’s you.”

There was desperation in the words, a plea for Jeff to save his biggest brother from himself.  Jeff wondered how many times the boys had tried to convince Scott themselves.  How many times they’d failed.

He wondered how many times they’d wished he was there to step in.  He wondered if things would have got this bad - and it was bad, how had he never seen that before - if he hadn’t been blasted to the Oort Cloud, leaving behind five traumatised sons.

There were no words he could offer - I’ll talk to him seemed too small, too insignificant for the subject matter at hand - so he swallowed and nodded.  It seemed to be good enough for Gordon.

He grabbed Alan’s arm as his younger brother tried to dart out of Thunderbird One - borrowed for this very urgent rescue mission, and Gordon was sure Scott wouldn’t mind.

“Me first,” he said.  Alan had played enough video games to know derelict old buildings were never good news.  Gordon wasn’t letting him go in first.

Someone ran out of the building as they left the Thunderbird, and Gordon shoved Alan behind him to a squawk of protest.

“Alan Tracy?” they gasped.  A teenager, with once-spiked hair that now looked like it had been stuck to his face with art paste.

Gordon hadn’t even registered the rain, but now he had, he was all too aware of the water thundering down around them.

“Fifteen-eight-two?”  Alan ducked back around to stand next to him, and Gordon glanced warily between the two teenagers.

“That’s me.  He’s here.”  The guy was still gasping for breath, and looked a little in shock.  “My bro’s in there with him still but we can’t get close.”

“Lead the way,” Gordon ordered, stepping forwards and past the external walls.

The floors were uneven and broken, moss and grasses poking up through it and currently bathing in a shallow river of water.  Clearly it had been raining for some time, and Gordon glanced up at the roof - or where the roof once was.  No shelter.

An inhuman sound, somewhere between a snarl and a whine, reached his ears and he tensed.

“Come on, man,” another voice pleaded - the teenager’s bro, he assumed.  “I’m trying to help.”

The sound repeated itself, and Gordon sped up, aware of Alan right on his heels as he followed the voices.

“International Rescue!” the second teenager exclaimed as he rounded a crumbled corner of wall and found himself in a large room.  He barely paid the teenager any mind, sweeping right past where he was hovering by what was once a door and making a beeline straight for the crumpled, snarling heap in the middle of the room.

Scott made the noise again, and behind Gordon, Alan gasped.

Gordon didn’t blame him.  Scott looked terrible.  His clothes were tattered and torn, and the fabric was plastered to him by the water still soaking them from above.  Blue eyes were bright, but it was the wrong sort of bright; too bright for there to be any coherency, too bright for recognition.  Fever bright.

“Hey, Scott,” he said, crouching down so they were on the same level.  The new angle showed him iron hoops in the floor and wet but strong rope linking them to Scott’s wrists.  His brother snapped at him, looking just like a cornered animal.

Had he been there the whole time he’d been missing?  Who had done this? Why had they done this?

Scott’s chest was heaving, every breath was a rasp dragging through his throat, and Gordon knew he was in trouble.

He also knew he didn’t want Alan seeing this, and nor would Scott, if he was in his right mind.

“Alan, take your two friends and go wait for Virgil,” he ordered.

“But-”

“Go.”

It was hard enough for him to see Scott reduced to this, whatever this was.  Some fever-induced nightmare.  It had to be worse for Alan, who had basically been raised by Scott, had always seen Scott as the one to go to when something was wrong.

“But-”  But Alan was a Tracy, too, and turning his back on someone who needed his help went against everything he knew.  Gordon switched tactics.

“There’s too many of us here,” he said.  “He’s not going to calm down while he’s outnumbered.”

“But it’s us,” Alan whined, and Gordon took his eyes off of Scott for a moment to look up at where he was standing instead.

“He doesn’t know that right now, Allie.”  He’d kept his voice quiet, gentle, but Alan still flinched as though he’d been struck.  “Go.  Wait for Virgil.  He’ll need you to guide him in.”

Virgil would just bust through every single wall until he reached them and they both knew it, but trembling, Alan finally took the lifeline for what it was.

“Call if you need me,” he said.  His eyes were wet but Gordon couldn’t tell if it was the rain or something else.

“I will,” he promised, and watched his younger brother herd the two teenagers out before facing his biggest brother again.  “That better, Scotty?”

Scott didn’t answer, but when Gordon made a tentative move to approach, he whimper-snarled again.  Gordon stopped.

“I need to get you out of that rope,” he said, keeping his voice low and gentle.  “It’s okay, Scott.  I’m not going to hurt you.”

He tried again.  Too-bright eyes watched him, and a whimper escaped his brother’s throat, but there were no more snarls.  Maybe Scott wasn’t as delirious as he’d first appeared.

Then Gordon laid a hand on the rope, and Scott jerked wildly.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Gordon coaxed.  “It’s okay, Scott.  I’m just gonna get you out of these ropes, okay?”

Scott quivered, reminding Gordon of that young nervous colt they’d had on the ranch once upon a time.

“I’m here to help,” he promised, and risked a slow, gentle touch to Scott’s shoulder.

When Scott didn’t flinch away, Gordon edged closer, keeping his movements slow, steady and obvious as he oh so slowly folded his brother into an embrace.

He was burning up.  It didn’t surprise Gordon in the slightest, but the sheer sauna his brother exuded was almost too hot to touch.  He held on anyway, cradling that too-hot forehead against his shoulder and feeling sodden hair plaster itself to his cheek.

“I’m going to get you out of here,” he promised quietly, resting one hand on the back of Scott’s head.  “I’m going to untie you, and then we’ll get out of this rain until Virgil comes to take us home.”

Cutting good rope was a crime, but even if this was functionally sound rope, it wasn’t good rope, and Gordon was afraid of what would happen if he completely released Scott again, so he plucked a multitool from his baldric with one hand, making sure to keep hold of his brother with the other, and began sawing at the rope.

It was sodden and squelched as the tool worked its way through - not good rope, then - but Gordon didn’t show it any mercy, continuing until it surrendered and released his brother.

Scott didn’t move.  Gordon wasn’t even sure he was still conscious.  With the rain still slamming down at them, he couldn’t hear if he was breathing.

They had to get to shelter.  Somewhere marginally less drowned, where he could protect Scott from the worst of the elements.

Gordon wasn’t naïve enough to hope that Scott had the strength to stand, let alone walk, and he knew he couldn’t carry him all the way back to Thunderbird One.  Virgil wouldn’t be long, a few more minutes at most.  There was a chance he’d already landed, the rain drowning out the roar of thunderous engines.

One of the walls was slumped over.  Not by much, and certainly not enough to classify as shelter, but it was close enough to reach, and better than the unprotected centre of the room.

“Okay, Scott,” he said, putting the multitool back before wrapping his arm around his brother again.  “We’re gonna move now, okay?”

There was no answer, even when Gordon shifted his grip and cautiously nudged him over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry.  Scott fell limply across him, and he staggered to his feet, clutching his brother tightly as he carefully picked his way across the uneven floor to the not-shelter and set Scott back down on the driest patch of wet he could find.

It was far from ideal, but it was a fraction better than where they’d been.  Gordon positioned himself so he was between Scott and the prevailing direction of rain.  The additional shelter he provided was negligible but it was still better than nothing.

Scott’s eyes were closed.  His skin was white but his cheeks were flushed, and Gordon didn’t even have to touch him to feel the heat he was emitting.  A measurement of his pulse showed it to be weak and faint.  Too weak and faint.

“Hold on, Scott,” he coaxed, grasping one limp, white hand in his, and catching sight of wrists rubbed raw by damp rope.  They were flaming red, swollen and no doubt infected.  “Virgil’s coming.  You’ve just got to hold on a little longer.”