A/N: Based on the idea 'No man is an island' - even if he does live on one. Many thanks to those who have made suggestions for improvement. Those suggestions have now been included. All rights to these characters belong to Granada Ventures and I make no claim on them.
The Greatest of These...
Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, And e'en his failings lean'd to virtue's side. Goldsmith.
"Is it me or is it suddenly hot in here?" Scott Tracy pulled at his bow tie and flexed the muscles in his abdomen under the cummerbund that seemed too tight around his waist. Virgil charitably reached across him to re-straighten his tie.
"Relax, will you? There's nothing to it," Virgil said.
Gordon stood at his opposite shoulder and smoothed creases from his suit for him. "He's right, big brother. Zilch. Absolutely nothing."
Scott was not convinced, had not been since his father had come up with this unusual idea. "If there's a call-out, John'll use the emergency vibration sequence. Okay. Remember the protocol we talked about. Someone'll be there to pick you up. None of us will be far away. It's all set out in the –ah‒ contract. Think of a plausible reason to get away if you're needed. Is that clear?"
Scott saw the smirk that passed between Virgil and Gordon and he believed he knew what they were thinking. Yes, he was worrying too much but when it came to their security, he took the responsibility on board.
Gordon pushed a glass of something light-coloured into his hand. "You could always fake a headache if you don't like the look of her."
Scott automatically went to drink what is in his hand then thought better of it. It wasn't alcohol but he had already downed four glasses of whatever it was that had been thrust on him by guests all evening. There was only so much fluid he could handle. He held the glass in the palm of his hand pretending to be interested in what was going on around him.
"A one in four chance, right? Any of us could be chosen."
"Right," his brothers agreed in unison.
Scott took in the crowded ballroom spread out before him, swishing with sequined gowns and black suits, his eye automatically scanning for those men fitted with an earpiece who served as Tracy Corp security. He felt more at ease when he picked them out. His two brothers beside him were also dressed in formal evening wear and, thanks to Grandma, were wearing a tie and cummerbund that matched the colour of their respective IR sashes. Scott thought his cobalt get up was far too vivid for his liking. His eyes almost glowed blue.
A quartet played classical numbers in an alcove. Balloons jostled in the dome atrium roof while below them distinguished guests jostled one another with their conversation and influence. His gaze lingered on the overhead glass, looking for the stars those balloons hid. These days he appreciated the vista their island provided. Plenty of clear horizon. It was too easy to feel edgy when he couldn't see the sky, as if seeing the vast expanse could give forewarning of trouble.
In front of him, his father and Alan pumped hands and circulated easily enough. Some of the people he knew. Politicians, business associates of Tracy Corporation, other high-profile people. Normally, he would have jumped at the chance to attend a social function, their solitary lifestyle not giving too many opportunities to do this. However, this time he was here as part of the menu, part of the entertainment.
"It's not every day one of us is sold at auction," Scott muttered. "Father must be trying to tell us something."
He had been uncomfortable with the idea since his father mentioned it. A fund-raiser for the International Benevolent Fund. His gaze was irresistibly drawn to the top hat on the podium across the room. Inside the silk lining were four Tracy names – the one lucky enough to be drawn would be sold to the highest bidder – for a dinner engagement at a place of the winner's choosing. He had no problem with the idea. Whatever he could do for those in need he would be the first to volunteer. But at the expense of one of their own? It seemed a little risky, a little more out in the open than what they were used to despite being reassured by his father that everything had been arranged in advance.
"In the name of charity," Gordon told him and then intoned in his father's deep voice. "But the greatest of these is..."
"I'm impressed by the way you guys are handling this," Scott said remembering how pleasant and attentive Gordon had been all evening.
"The poor women and children will thank you – er– us." Virgil gripped Scott by both shoulders. "Don't forget, one in four. It could be any one of us. Such a shame John couldn't but, hey, someone had to be on duty."
Scott grunted at this. John had been the only one to refuse. Outright. He'd turned whiter than chalk when his father explained the reasons behind the idea. Good for their character. Keep them grounded. Remind them how the other half lives. John figuratively chained himself to Thunderbird Five's console by refusing the change over with Alan at the end of the month. As Scott watched another round of giggling women head their way to give him and his brothers the once over, he wondered if he should have done the same thing in Thunderbird One.
"You know where charity begins," Gordon whispered across to him.
"Only for a few hours," Virgil said in his other ear.
Scott was still deciding how he felt about being bought. Charity already began at home. Didn't he do enough for International Rescue? But if he could contribute, if someone benefited then he was willing. Despite his reservations, he strung together a few charitable thoughts and hoped his face mirrored them.
"So, who's Scott Tracy?" You can still remember the silence that follows your naive question. You could have heard a pin drop before the other staff members claw at each other in disbelief of your ignorance. Thankfully, your boss was not so easily swayed from the point.
"Read the contract. It's all in the fine print. Mr Tracy Senior has been very particular about the conditions. Memorise them. We don't want to offend, despite the money we'll pay out. Remember we're not giving charity, here, we're just trying to look like we are. You already know the outcome of the auction but try to act surprised and a tiny bit delighted."
The only privilege you were allowed is a choice of venue – out of a list of two – and thirty seconds to decide. As you're not one to eat out, even go out for that matter, the choice meant nothing to you, so with a shrug and a point, you had chosen one. The theatre restaurant, where you can eat while you watch a show so you don't have to make small talk with a complete stranger.
Now, as you look through the crowd from the sidelines, you're nervous. In fact, you're terrified. You've done your research and understand who the Tracys are. You suppose you should feel privileged to be spending time with someone who is regarded as a celebrity. However, no matter how wealthy they are, you're worried about a group of men who are unattached and live together in a remote place even though they're old enough to leave home.
And you worry more about what you have in common with a former Top Gun and captain in the Air Force? Do you salute? How do you keep him interested for five minutes let alone five hours? Five hours is starting to sound like sacrifice not charity.
As you think back over the information you've gathered, you think the brother who's an engineer sounds more your style as he's a designer and builder of things like you are. Or the one who writes about the stars, they've always inspired you. You live near the sea, and you think you could hold your own talking engine compression with the youngest. But planes?
You made a model Spitfire, once. The last present from pa before he left and you can't even remember what happened to it. You especially hate planes since one nearly took your life by dropping out of the sky, reducing your fly-speck of an existence to jumping at shadows, and you only take to the clouds these days when your boss gets out the 'c' word. Contract.
And above this, you despise the violence being in the armed forces suggests. Something you'd fled, with no desire whatsoever to return so you hope he's not going to regale you with graphic war stories because you are just not going to bloody-well listen. You're already recoiling from the possibilities.
Standing there in hired gear two sizes too small, you don't flatter yourself. You know you weren't selected for any great beauty or attractiveness, you really could be anyone, one of the thousands of anybodies who crowd the streets. You were selected because you're meek and co-operative, and you're not going to cause trouble for the company because you need this job.
You can't believe the things you do for your bloody existence.
Standing there trussed and corseted, you feel like the ugly big sister though you'll be expected to play the princess, and suddenly you feel rebellious, wondering how these rich people came to be so important and you're resentful at what you have to do for your own survival. You don't feel at all charitable. You feel inadequate. And you imagine all the clever remarks you could say, of how you could make this Scott Tracy work for the privilege of your company.
But despite the rebellious thoughts, the list of things you're not allowed to do or say rolls on in your head. No swearing, no flirting, no suggestive comments. Whatever you do, you know you must not offend and you won't because of what you are and that's what they want – a polite, pleasant impression so the company will have their contract renewed, so you will have your future assured.
Standing there you have serious doubts about being able to do it – until you catch a glimpse of who is supposed to be Scott Tracy – and then you know for sure you can't.
The crowd hushed as the compere waved his hand over the hat while a spotlight shone on the black rim. Along with the rest of the audience, Scott watched as the gloved hand reached in and drew out a piece of paper. His focus narrowed. He didn't need this. He willed it not to be him.
"Scott Tracy!"
Scott heard his name yet he didn't respond until he felt his brothers' hands on him.
"Awh, Scott! The better man!" His brothers were sympathetic, groaning loudly with disappointment, but they didn't waste any time pushing him forward. Scott turned up his glittering image to full and stepped into the spotlight to listen to a short history of his own career and achievements, with a few important gaps, and to watch with a sense of disbelief at the enthusiasm in the bidding for him.
The voice of auctioneer took over... "Now, what do I hear bid for this magnificent specimen of male..."
He didn't have to worry about a lack of interest. Rather, he was embarrassed at how quickly the amount climbed to an obscene figure. Six figure obscenities. When the bidding waned he was asked to parade, show his assets to better advantage by removing his coat. This he did, while answering personal questions put to him by the host. He played up to it, even as the women in the front threw him articles of intimate apparel. He was thankful they were well outbid by the corporate sponsors, the hammer finally falling along with a gasp from the crowd.
"Sold to the representative of Myown Industries..."
When it was done, he struggled to understand why anyone would spend so much money to spend five hours with him. Here, where the wait staff would be lucky to make fifteen bucks an hour, he could by being a Tracy generate a bank vault of money within minutes.
Thankfully, this was for charity. All for charity. And he wouldn't forget it.
When you stand next to Mr Tracy Junior, handing over your gigantic fake cheque to the compere, you realise just how big and broad he is. You are the mini beside the bus and an admirably proportioned bus at that. The way he stands there, boots slightly apart, arms not quite at his sides, his frame packing that suit with a word that escapes you for a moment. Readiness. That's it! You nearly blurt it out in your remembering it. One thing you know for sure. The tabloids are wrong. He doesn't spend his days lazing by the pool on their private tropical island. And looking at him frightens you to think what he does do. What position could possibly contain such energy, such confidence, such power?
He smiles at you, mainly with his mouth, his eyes not really taking you in as he seems to be taking in everything else around him. You can't blame him for his divided attention as he's being asked for his reaction by the Master of Ceremonies, which he gives easily enough. You don't remember what he says exactly but he looks perfectly at ease as if he's used to this.
You, on the other hand, are convinced you look like a red pillar-box, standing rigidly on stage with your mouth slightly ajar, heat creeping up your face to set it on fire. It's more than hating being up there in front of everyone, it's that your rehearsed composure has shattered. You've seen his picture on the computer and in the tabloids making him feel unusually familiar but nothing prepares you for what he looks like or how he presents himself in person.
You could never forget your former partner had been big... and bad.
You're being offered his arm and you have to take it. You know the drill by heart after they made you practise twenty-seven times and you rely on that to get you out of there through the crowd, being drawn along by the long striding man like a hankie caught in the margin of his pocket, your palm tucked into the fold of his elbow.
You're scared stiff of him. With what you're thinking, you're too afraid to look up in case somehow everyone else will know. Instead, you focus on the regular fall of his dress boots on the wood floor, the polished silver tip taking in the passing colour of the occasion to wink teasingly in your eye. You try to calculate how many months wages they'd have cost you, well aware that, as you are escorted through the hall, your expectations of rich recluses disintegrates into fragments that even a microscope couldn't locate.
Scott strode out into the street and straight for the dark limousine waiting for him out the front. Parker, in his usual chauffeur livery, held the back door open for him and his companion.
"All clear?"
"H'all quiet I believe, Mister Scott."
Scott couldn't help a quick glance around at the crowd on the footpath that were being kept at bay by security personnel. Flashes of light warned him he was being photographed. What he wouldn't give for the image shield in Thunderbird One, right about now. He helped his companion into the vehicle, one hand clasped in hers, another around her elbow, realising he had not taken in the tiny creature's name and determined to right that oversight immediately.
When his date settled into the far corner of the plush rear seats, he held out his hand.
"Scott. At your service, ma'am. Whatever I can do to make your evening enjoyable."
At first, you just look at the hand being offered you. You know you're being terribly rude staring at it like that, as you're stuffed back into the armrest like a cornered runaway. You've always been the watcher, the one whose outlook on life is derived from the sum of your observations from the sidelines.
And something doesn't add up.
Two of his fingernails are split, chopped to the quick to be more accurate. They're clean, ruthlessly clean like he's spent hours scrubbing at them, but worn down, black around the edges and something ground deep in the creases. Grease? He's injured himself somehow, two fingers swollen and bruised. You can only think maybe they've been crushed or caught in something.
His long, agile hand is far from the pale grubs you see that pass as fingers across the business table. He could do anything with those hands – micro surgeon, pianist – and you have no doubt he could, if he wanted to. Only you can see he doesn't.
"You don't have staff?" you hear yourself blurt, referring to the state of what he's offering you. Not quite the charming opening line you've practised but he doesn't seem bothered. He rolls his hand, flexes it and shrugs.
"I like to keep a hand in," he says evenly. He's looking more intently at you, weighing you, running you by his past experience, and you wonder if he realises he's said something amusing.
"Hopefully where it belongs," you return, annoyed your curiosity can be like a badly mannered hound sometimes.
His face transforms at this. A slick, sideways grin that works the dimples in his cheeks. "Not always but I get away with it."
You take his hand before he thinks to withdraw it, lightly, just to make sure he doesn't feel snubbed and because you can't resist being sympathetic when you see hurt. "Only just, by the looks," you say, still considering what he's done to it.
"Mmm," he agrees, still with that heart-stopper of a smirk. "This time." He tries to shrug it off but there's a tinge of seriousness filtering through. "Excuse me." He slides forward to talk to the driver, who he obviously knows, and leaves you wondering what the hell he does do.
As the vehicle pulled into traffic, Scott slid aside the partition between him and Parker in the front.
"Any idea of the co-ordinates?"
Parker nodded to the screen attached to the dashboard. "H'all logged. H'about thirty minutes, I would say. Traffic's light h'and the Domain tunnel's h'all clear. I took the liberty to stock the cupboard just in case you're perishin'. Your favoured drop."
"Great. You deserve a raise." Scott paused only a moment to consider how Parker knew to put what he liked in the refreshment compartment.
"Perhaps you could mention it when ᾽er Ladyship's in ᾽earing."
Scott patted the chauffeur's shoulder. "I'll see what I can do. Keep me up to speed." Just as he was about to return to his guest, he noticed Parker glance in the rear-view mirror.
"If you're interested, like."
Scott turned to look out the back window. "Paparazzi?"
"The green van what's three back. It was waitin' out the front. I ᾽eard ᾽em using the National Broadcastin' monicker but they don't normally top spin you lot. Unusual, if you h'ask me."
"Okay. You know what to do. Contact John. He'll work some magic with the traffic signals."
"You leave h'it to me, Mister Scott. You enjoy your –h'ah– night off."
"I'll do that." Scott scooted back to sit next to his dinner guest, leaving the partition open and allowing himself only one more look out the rear window. Parker was right. Considering what they normally handled, a load of photographers would be a cinch. He focused back on the task at hand, which he suspected may be more of a challenge than he'd first thought.
TBC