Thunderwhump

International rescue is called as building collapsed, Scott gets caught in the second collapse

Warnings: character death, blood warning, crying, author going to be blown up soon.

——————

THE OWNER OF THIS WATCH 📉📉📉HAS TAKEN 📉📉 HARD 📉📉📉FALL OWNER.…IN.......VED....I....MIS...AP.

Helllp....Nuhhhhh.....

TRIX!

(ao3 link)

Rating: Teen and Up

Characters: Scott Tracy, John Tracy, Virgil Tracy, Gordon Tracy, Alan Tracy, Kayo Kyrano, Brains, Grandma Tracy, Wilson, Lindsey, Lucille Tracy (mentioned), Jeff Tracy (mentioned)

Summary: I love TOS/TAG with all my heart, but I really wished they'd done a TAG version of The Uninvited. Get rid of the guns and the (kinda accidental?) ethnic genocide, and it's a great ep, and the new dynamics of TAS would have only improved it. Like what do you mean your big brother has been shot down, and everyone is kinda like 'gee! wonder if he's dead or not? golly how darn frustrating'. So I decided to take matters into my own hands. And sprinkled some of my favourite fanon/headcanons in there for good measure.

Lightheaded

Your whumpee is feeling a bit lightheaded. This could be because they are sick or they just got choked or maybe they were chasing someone while injured? There are many possibilities why your whumpee could feel lightheaded.

Tag your posts with #whumpers-monthly and #issue no 49   If you make a gifset for the prompt, please also add the tag #whumpedit  

If you already made a post that fits this prompt, reblog that post and tag @whumpers-monthly

Inside Out -DeeBee55

Chapter 2: Lightheaded

He established a routine. Up at dawn, run ten-K in the heat of the morning desert heat.

He’d shower, grab some bread or cereal and fruit and head to work at the manufactory, sometimes rolling up his sleeves and getting to work on the floor, but mostly in his tiny office that overlooked it. His lunch was promptly delivered at noon for him to nibble on and he worked until the car came for him at five. He'd venture out in the evening where he devoured dinner and made new friends who didn't give a shit who he was.

As the weeks went by, the patriarch approved his work. Praise came over virtual meetings in the form of a nod or smile or two simple words, 'carry on'. He was doing well in the man's eyes, and it felt good. The morning runs lengthened gradually from ten-K to twelve, to fourteen and eventually to a torturous, shin splitting sixteen-K in an hour and a half.

He ran because he could. He was as good at it as he was a pilot and a climber.

He could control his body - what it could do - what went into it.

He proved to himself he could go further, last longer and still get into the office for a productive day.

Fruit and grain became liquified low sugar breakfast smoothies easier to down on the drive to the water plant. Coffee was vital several times throughout the day. Lunch was delivered as usual but was seldom eaten yet he seemed to thrive on the second wind high of hunger. Dinners were still devoured but his belly filled faster and he tired easier by the end of the day. Sleep however evaded him and he spent hours staring at the ceiling wondering how he could get the patriarch’s approval ...and his love. Sometimes he'd grab the skipping rope from the coat hangar and skip like a boxer training for the main event, until lightheaded, he’d flop from exhaustion onto his bed. Other times he'd push his body to see just how many push-ups he had in him until one time he pushed so hard he woke up the next morning to find himself face down on the floor; dried blood caked on a split upper lip.

"Not good," he told himself. But, hey, the bigger picture was that the numbers at work were still good and the target date was going to be met and most of all he was in control of his regimen. He'd just have to try harder to think of ways to be in his father's favor...to win his love, later. The project lasted nearly three months, but he didn't mind. He didn't miss flying as he thought he would because he didn't miss being near to the patriarch. He didn't even miss the family. He was happy to speak to them remotely. His soul felt light and rejuvenated until everyone around him and eventually his family, grew wary of the way he looked. His assistant started to ask if he was feeling well...if there was anything he needed...if he perhaps needed time off. With the project half a month away from completion there was no way he was taking time off. Then came the observations from his family. They wanted to know why he appeared to be thinner than usual, a question the great man thankfully diverted by reminding them that he was working in the desert and it was only natural that he'd shed a few kilos in the heat and with the type of food available. But what the patriarch did not see or choose to see were the sunken dark circles around his eyes, the more prominent breast and collar bones and that his dimples and cleft looked like potholes in his drawn face.

He did not see it because he wasn't looking for it.

To make sure no one else saw who he'd become, he didn't sleep with anyone, made sure his shirts were baggy 'to keep him cool and comfortable' and put another notch in his belt and cinched in the waist so his pants didn't appear to sag. He even exchanged video calls for audio calls only, bluffing about flawed technology, which his brothers knew was rubbish, but did not challenge as they too were busy working to please their father. Like breakfast, lunches became liquid too - anything to keep his assistant from coming into his office with food she tried to make him eat. After a week of pointing to his shaker cup, she stopped trying to force solid food into him.

"Please, Mr. Tracy, please try not to disappear."

At dinner he wolfed as much of the meal as he could, his shrunken stomach filling within ten minutes of beginning to eat.

But he wasn't worried. He accepted it.

He actually … liked it.

In the bathroom he would drag his hand over the steamy mirror and look at his diminishing presence. At first, he would look at himself with concern and perhaps a little fear. Over time those feelings turned to awe and oddly enough admiration and triumph over how much he dictated what was happening to his body - what he was doing to himself. He stood before the mirror tracing along his face, his fingers lingering at the sharpness of his cheekbones, playing with the hollow of his eyes. His straight nose looked sharp on his gaunt face - his jaw and chin angular and pointy. His neck looked longer and his collarbones rose up from his shoulders like hills. He could palpitate the vertebra along the back of his neck, and his Adam's apple stuck out like a huge lump in his throat.

One night he ran his fingers over his chest, his breath increasing to the point of hyperventilation at the feel of his sternum. Shocked, he stumbled out of the bathroom. The room was spinning before him and he reeled on unsteady limbs towards his bed where he lay supine and brought a trembling hand to his torso, spindly fingers tapping ever so lightly on his skin. He felt and counted his ribs, his hand sinking onto his grumbling concave belly which oddly brought a smile to his face that grew wider when he rested his hands on his jutting hip bones. Was he really doing what he'd thought of so often but didn't know how to do?

Amazed at how pared-down his body had become, he thought of himself as sleeker and more efficient, somewhat like Thunderbird One. Hmm...crazy...but ...cool? Perhaps.

How much weight had he lost? he wondered.

He didn't care. He was disappearing and no one was really noticing.

Or so he'd thought.

Brains had reported that he had gone to check on the project and was taken aback by Scott's appearance. No longer the strong, lean muscled and toned commander, Brains was worried that in spite of his tanned skin, he appeared weak, sickly and tired.

Each day he'd touch his bones for reassurance that he was in control.

They were revealed because he made it so.

He was in control not the patriarch. He was casting his own shadow...his own frail, thin shadow but his own nonetheless.

He wondered how long he could last this way and then he shuddered as the nagging truth about his self starvation, his self-sacrificing, and his deprivation hit him.

He was committing slow suicide.

Slowly drifting away to meet his mother somewhere beyond.

And somehow, as ill and drained as he felt most days, he’d made peace with it, and he grew less scared of it each day.

Less afraid of his demise.

Death could come sooner than he anticipated.

The more his bones emerged out of his body, the more he felt like he was rising out of his troubles and flipping the proverbial bird to the man who called himself father - getting him off his back and freeing himself of his expectations and finally stepping out of the box that had trapped him for so long. Humph - the irony - stepping out of one box and most likely into another.

The time passed quickly and the revelation day of Tracy Industries Project Water had arrived. It was easy to hide his new controlled body under a loose white shirt, khakis and a sunshade desert hat. His smile was broad and his speech was strong, convincing and brief and water was successfully delivered to each Egyptian desert household. His work was done, his hand long healed and it was time to head back to his life at International Rescue.

He shuddered at the thought.

Amidst an off-balance and faint feeling, Scott toiled up the four flights of stairs to his apartment on the top floor on wobbly legs. Panting at the top of the staircase, he grabbed onto the railing to steady himself before he strained to put one foot in front of the other to carry himself down the hallway to his door. Sodden with sweat, he propped himself on the door with one hand while he tried to steady the other so weak from exhaustion, he could barely hold the key let alone insert it into the keyhole to unlock the door.

He heard himself whimper as he blinked rapidly, trying to focus on the simple task at hand,

“Just…open the door,” he muttered, a click so satisfying to his ears, it made him chuckle.

Leaning against the door, he took a moment to catch his breath, turning slightly to fasten the deadbolt.

The cramp came suddenly as if someone was stabbing him rapidly with thousands of icepicks. He cried out as he doubled over in pain and staggered to his bed, a knot in his stomach twisting, cutting off his breath, pushing everything he could see further away from him. He lay in his bed and slowly turned to look at the empty suitcases against the wall waiting to be packed. Racked with anxiety from what they represented, he felt like he was losing all the control he'd regained. Night came and still he lay in the bed, listening to his deep, stuttered and raspy breaths. He couldn’t sit up, definitely couldn’t stand and couldn’t stop his hands from shaking and he felt feeble.

Because he was.

Three months of literally running on empty had caught up to him and paralyzed him on his bed. The perspiration that had soaked his body in the stuffy apartment had now dried, leaving him shivering with cold. His empty belly growled in protest and his raw burning throat longed for water to quench his thirst. But he could not move. He did not have the strength.

He was too weak.

Weak and pathetic and so afraid.

Afraid until the bliss of the shrill noise in his ears, and greyed vision narrowing as the darkness pulled him under.

It’s happening, he tried to say, but he could only form the words with parched, pale lips. But he heard his words loudly in his head.

So light…m’floating.

Finally. You’re doing it – right here. You’re finally going to her from a shitty little apartment near Cairo.

DISCERNIBLE FALLOUT

- by thwhumpfan

It all happened so quickly and the fallout of his actions, discernible. He saw his brother's body slam and imbed into the rocky ground. He knew he had screamed his name but he didn't hear it past the big boom and then the piercing, shrill squealing in his ears. He scrambled to get to his feet but couldn't stand. So, he crawled over to him, grasping at the ground to propel himself toward the way too still and twisted form that was his brother, Scott. The debris was still flying about, metal rods and rocks pummeling him as he made his way to where his brother lay supine, also being pounded by debris.

Begging the universe to let him find his brother alive, Virgil cried out, when he felt Scott's breath against his cheek. Scooping him into his arms and propping him onto his his good leg, the jubilation he felt was brief. Scott was bleeding - a lot. He had a couple head wounds and his face was a map of scrapes and instant bruises. He has a chest wound and blood was flowing out of scattered rips in his uniform; his right arm clearly deformed and broken as was his leg that was folded beneath him.

This was his fault. Why couldn't he listen? Follow orders? Why couldn't he just do what Scott had asked? What was the point of his defiance? There was no point. Only consequence as Scott lay way too still and bleeding way too much in his trembling arms. Screaming at the top of his lungs but not hearing anything; willing his brother to open his eyes to no avail, reassuring distraction arrived in the form of younger brother first responders, taking charge of the scene.

A scene which was his own doing - causing his brother's blood and his, to swirl, mix and smear all over the younger two.

A scene which Scott was trying to prevent.

A scene that yielded a casualty.

For days, or what he perceived were days, there were just sounds - unfamiliar noises. Before the gap of nothingness, there was only the shrill, high-pitched sound that made him believe he was indeed rendered deaf.

Now, there was pain.

Intense pain.

Everywhere.

Head. Face. Neck. Shoulder. Arms. Legs. Side. Gut.

And a metalic, pungent and somewhat antiseptic smell.

Clearly blood and medicine.

What had he gone and done this time? He'd get into scrapes now and then on rescues, his over-protective nature always out of his control. But this - this was nothing like he'd ever experienced. It seemed ...big, perhaps serious.

Too serious.

He felt the panic welling up from deep inside his aching gut causing his eyes to open in terror of the painful darkness in which he'd been trapped and wandering.

Nuhh he heard himself cry out, quickly feeling surprisingly embarassed by the outburst. Of course he'd cry out. Everything hurt like hell, all at once. It was pain he'd never experienced and in the moment, it didn't matter if everyone had held him up as being brave or fearless.

What if he was in such a broken state because he had been reckless?

Humph. Reckless. He had many a moment.

Had he gone and finally done it now?

"Scott?"

He recognized the warm, smooth (albeit gravely) baritone voice instantly.

Virgil.

He tried to turn his head say his brother's name but his temples throbbed and he was too weakened by the overwhelming pain throughout his body.

"Scott - I'm...I'm sorry," his brother said, in barely a whisper. 'I ...I didn't listen. Didn't follow orders,"

He rapidly began blinking trying to focus on his brother's face. Even with his right eye barely open, he could see that Virgil was injured, his blurry face smudged with the crimson of blood and the blue and purple hues of bruises, peppered with black knicks and stitches.

Virgil, what happened? You're hurt, he meant to say but it came out as an unintelligible, muffled distortion that scraped it's way out of his dry throat and through burning, parted, chapped lips.

"Shhh, save your strength. You're hurt...bad..but...in time, you're ...you're gonna be okay," he said, hesitating before carefully placing a reassuring hand on his left shoulder.

Scott felt his brother's entire body shudder through the lightness of the hand. He had so many questions. So much to say, but by Virgil's demeanor and the overwhelming pain that racked his body, he reckoned he was about to get answers.

"I'm sorry. I ...I didn't listen."

Scott noted the words were uttered before.

'I'm sorry I didn't believe you and ...and that I went to the quarry anyway. You warned me it was a trap. I was just so angry that you even had the intel. I...I judged you for the way you...I should have trusted you...I...,"

Virgil continued to break down, sobbing out deep regret, it seemed. Did he want to know? To be reminded? He's been at loggerheads with the family lately - Oh...god...no...no, no no, he thought as flashes of the incident began to spring to mind.

"I didn't believe it was a trap ...thought you wanted to play the hero when you told me to stay away. I wanted to catch you with her. Should have listened. I see now that ... you...you were right. It...it was not my place...shouldn't have judged you. When all you....you... were trying to protect me, is all,"

With every sobbed apology and admittance of regret, Scott pieced together what had happened. What he'd tried to prevent and what played out before him.

He got the intel that he should be far away enough from the quarry to remain safe from the blast of the detonation, but close enough to ward off suspicion.

"I'll meet you right here," she said.

"That's where I'll leave my tracker,"

"Right. Keep your brothers away. It's after hours and we'll lure the security guards away so no one gets hurt. We'll tell him you entered the quarry and we lost track of you and that the second after the explosion, your craft was gone...whisked away. Its believable that it would be remote piloted. I'll send you a warning on the fob before he detonates. That's when you take off,"

It was fail safe. But Virgil didn't believe him. He thought he was trying to be ever the martyr-hero. He didn't understand that it was the Hood's plan they were trying to thwart. Only John understood what was really happeninng. Only John who chose to look the other way for the greater good of it all, while the others were appalled at the eldest's 'fall from grace'. Shocked and dismayed that he would bed the enemy. Only he hadn't just bedded her. They'd given each other their hearts.

He remembered now.

To his horror, Two landed at a clearing near the quarry just as he was leaving.

"Two life signs detected," he'd heard him say because he didn't know it was the brother and sister and that it was all part of the plan.

"Stand down Thunderbird Two," John had all but screamed, then as if in slow-motion, Scott watched Virgil run past him and into the danger zone. He ran after him, grabbed him and tried to pull him away. But with a heavy shove, the younger shouted,

"Get off me, Scott!" as his brother landed on the ground.

Marching on, he tapped his baldric and told Gordon and Alan to bring in the pods.

"No! Virgil, you don't understand! You have to get back! Stop the pods!" Scott screamed after him, realizing all he could do in that moment was get his brother out of the way. Running with all his might he rammed his brother behind a a steel blast wall then turned and ran into the quarry to where he'd left her, screaming her name while Virgil screamed his.

"Havoc! Wait! Tell Fuse to WAIT!"

And then then the fob buzzed and vibrated.

In seconds, all went bright white, high pitched, and then pitch black.

Panting, with perspiration beading on his brow and trickling from his scalp down his neck, Scott mustered the strength to move his left hand which Virgil promptly took in his without looking at him.

"Tell...me," he rasped.

When there was no response, he repeated the words in spite of the pain and strain.

He saw Virgil's broad and now very burdened shoulders rise and fall, his head lolling even lower between them.

"Al'n...Gor..."

"They're fine. Just a few bumps and bruises. Pods protected them fine at that distance,"

"You?"

"Don't worry about me,"

"You?" Scott said, again.

"Knee brace, six weeks...stitches, days to a couple weeks. I'm fine. You pushed me behind a blast wall," he said, "When I got to you....I .. I thought...You were...the blood and I...I couldn't ...I couldn't wake you....Scott, I'm s-sorry..."

Scott trembled and gathered the gumption to utter the next word. Virgil hesitated then slowly turned and looked at him over his shoulder and shook his head.

"She - she heard you calling. She ah... tried to stop Fuse from ... but..." he began, "He ...he was the one ... he ... found her. I'm so sorry, Scott,"

A sharp pain sliced through his body as Scott gasped as his brother's words settled into his brain. With hot tears stinging his eyes and burning the cuts and grazes on his face as they spilled down his cheeks, he manoeuvred his shoulder from beneath Virgil's hand,

"Get out," he uttered, and then twice more between Virgil's I'm sorrys, until John had come into the room upon hearing the hubbub from the hallway. Helping Virgil to his feet, mumbling persuasive words into his distraught brother's ear, he ushered him out of the room, sparing a glance to the eldest who was lying confined to what seemed to be a too confining, hospital bed, body broken; heart and soul, the epitome of anguish and grief.

Thoracostomy

Febuwhump Day 17: Fingers in the Wound.

With thanks to @mariashades for all their help.

~ ‘Get out of there!’

John’s roar came one second too late and the building collapsed before anyone could do more than take a breath.

Another breath. And then everyone was screaming. Everyone except…

‘Thunderbirds, sound off!’

John’s command cut through the chatter, silencing internal comms even while the whole world around them carried on screaming.

‘Thunderbird Two.’ ‘Thunderbird Three.’ ‘Thunderbird Four.’ ‘Thunderbird Shadow.’

But there was no Thunderbird One.

How goes it?

Question.

What's something you keep in TB One for sentimental reasons or inspirational reasons and similarly is there something like that you also keep in your office at Tracy Industries ?

Your world consists of family and preserving life and producing and supplying things that benefit human life and the planet that I wondered if there one or two inspirational things that your eyes fall on that keep you going. For instance, I wear a bracelet with the words, 'make a difference every day'.

It got me out of bed on days I didn’t think I could. I wondered what token(s) inspires or encourages you.

Hey there, Anon

Huh well this is an interesting one actually. Back when I was in the military, the talisman or lucky item or mascot or… well there were lots of names for it… was a small item people wore or carried on them. The idea is it would bring you luck or focus or, in my case, I carried it to remind me who I was and what was important and never to lose sight of that when everyone around me was trying to mould me into someone else.

A rather soggy big brother, as it turned out, drenched beneath his hoodie as he made his way closer. Gordon hit the lever for the stairs before sliding out of the pilot’s seat and shuffling his way back toward the passenger area. Leaving a bag of pastries in his place and moving to one side to leave space for Scott.

“You weren’t kidding about the rain! Get in here before all the tropical air gets out!”

Scott jogged up the stairs and stowed his bag in a locker just inside the hatch before turning to his beaming brother:

“Nice landing by the way. Thanks for coming to fetch me, Gordy... Was getting pretty bored back there.”

He popped a little salute before clenching his hand back into a fist and stuffing both into the pocket of his hoodie. With any luck Gordon wouldn’t have spotted the slight tremble. Big brother inclined his head towards the pilot seat and sidestepped towards the jumpseat. He grinned back and inserted a little hint of a teasing tone into his voice:

Gordon all but leapt forward to wrap that taller Tracy in a tight hug. Holding it for a long moment before pulling back to stare at Scott. Blinking several times before leaning back in, ruffling through his hair rather dramatically.

He batted half-heartedly at his brothers hands as they mussed his damp hair. “Gerroff y’menace…” He knew his instinctive move to neaten it again was more than futile - the Tracy floof had been untameable for the last 72 hours as somehow he’d managed to forget to pack any gel. The hoodie had been a strategic choice for reasons other than anonymity. The pouring rain had actually been a useful scapegoat.

“No chips. Is still me. Just…” he belatedly caught the scent of freshly baked pasty and broke into a genuine smile at his brother’s attempt to cheer him up “Can’t a guy relax and enjoy a pastry while he dries out?”

He backed away and pulled off the sodden hoodie to reveal an equally dripping shirt. He wrung a little water from his cuffs before compulsively running his fingers through his hair again.

Gordon raised a rather skeptical brow, before rolling his eyes affectionately. Reaching over to the pilot’s seat to retrieve the rather large bag of pastry, and gently tossing it toward his brother.

“Thought it might help me lure you on board if all else failed. Y’know, just in case…”

He paused, drumming his fingers against the seat as he watched the small puddle forming around his brother’s feet, before moving back toward the cockpit.

Scott trailed off, so caught in the undertow of his thoughts he almost missed the flying bag of pastries. Which would definitely have aroused suspicion. He shook himself and paid better attention.

“This is a LOT of pastries Gordy… were y’planning a Hansel and Gretel kinda operation here?”

A cinnamon-apple danish was quickly identified and Scott held it between his teeth as he secured the harness. It smelt incredible but felt like cotton wadding on his tongue, filling his mouth and suffocating him. He couldn’t breathe. He had forgotten how.

He let the pastry drop into his hands and took a slow breath before taking a small nibble, focussing on chewing, and on not passing out.

The all encompassing roar of his beloved bird was a relief - he leaned back into the headrest and closed his eyes. This was fine. This was to be expected. He was fine. He was going home and he could forget about it all for another month. Kinda. There was homework, of course. Some of which was going to be a challenge to organise. But mostly he could be normal and be with his family and would reassure them it was all fine.

He shivered in the wet shirt then regained a grip on himself and eased the passenger comms headset out of its holder and over his ears.

Speed eating a pie.

Speed hugging - gotta hug everyone in the room before the 12th chime.

Dancing… kinda already is a tradition here - not on the stroke of midnight but just after we all go mad to that Scottish song nobody actually knows many of the words of and we all vow to learn it the next year and then do not. I can’t even remember why we started it… was it a Creighton-Ward thing?

I digress.

A friend told me once their grandparents had always insisted the first word you uttered after midnight would have significant meaning for the year ahead. So to honour the tradition but not get too uptight about it they all made a point of yelling the most ridiculous word they could think of. I could get behind that.

This year I belatedly choose: