Summary: Someone prowls Tracy Island at night. Missing scene, filling in some of the not-
well-implied-time-gap between the London scenes and the tag of the movie. There's obviously a couple of weeks missing there.
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Only if you haven't seen the movie.
Disclaimer: Last time I checked, I didn't own the rights to the Thunderbirds. But I play with them and put them back when I am through (straightens characters so they don't look like they've been moved. Oops, I think John was over here, and Gordon was over there, and . . . oh, never mind.)
Archive: Well, I guess so. But credit where credit's due.
Aftermath
The final rays of the sun were long gone from the sky. On most days, the Pacific sunset was a pleasant conclusion to the day. But today that red-tinged sky had only reminded him of that which he did not want to think about. Night was better. It softened things, and perhaps tonight it would hide that which he did not want to see.
Leaving his quarters, he headed toward the compound. It was a custom of his–ever since coming to the island–to walk about before retiring. A final check, ensuring that all things were in their place. And, he thought, with a tinge of bitterness, all people also. No one questioned this habit. It was simply one piece in the working of Tracy Island.
He stepped into the main living area—the combined kitchen-dining-lanai section. Although most of the broken glass had been swept away, and the furniture returned to its proper places, there were still too many visible traces of battle. Tiny glitters scattered across the floor, mute testimony to the hasty cleaning. The orange sofa was covered in a multitude of small slashes from its meeting with the glass wall, along with several larger ones across its back. And who knew what glass lay buried within it. It would have to be recovered–or replaced. The green sofa–located next to the former wall–had fared no better that its companion.
His attention turned to that wall. Only the metal frame remained, a few glass shards clinging precariously to it. Miraculously, the aquariums had escaped damage, one of the few items in the room to do so. Although they should be checked, as should the potted plants. Making the mental note, he moved on.
While the kitchen proper remained intact, empty shelves bore mute testimony to where glassware and dishes had stood. Even the pots and pans–and Ohana was quite particular about them–would need to be replaced. He picked up one pan and turned it over in his hands, his fingers tracing the dented bottom. This one was her favorite. She would never let anyone wash it with soap. Oh, the scolding she had given him once for doing just that. Only water she would use; water and her special brush.
Setting the pan back on the cook-top, he moved on. The scars in the walls would have to be repaired, he noted, and refinished. Even the pools would have to be cleaned, for who knew if glass shards or other things lay hidden beneath the water's serene surface. He looked up at the moon, and subconsciously made an ancient gesture.
He tread softly down the hall leading to the sleeping quarters. Many was the time he walked this area, especially when the boys were younger. Childhood diseases had always swept the Tracy boys in such a way that it seemed one was recovering, two were sick, and one was coming down with a disease at any given time. And the odd one was either done with the disease or hadn't yet acquired it. Only when the boys had all been through a disease, was it finally passed to Tin-tin and Fermat. He smiled with the memory.
Pausing at one door, he heard nothing. Scott was working late again, probably helping Brains with repairs on Thunderbird One. Although Alan had done yeoman's work in stopping the Hood, he had caused damage to Thunderbird One with his handling of the vehicle, and Scott was quite particular about "his" Thunderbird. He made a mental note to check the hanger; and–if need be–encourage Scott to rest.
Moving on, he stopped at the next door. He hesitated, before activating the switch which opened the door to the room. John had returned to the island only a few hours earlier, after an enforced stay in a London hospital, and had gone straight to his room.
Now he lay a drugged sleep. Only one who was familiar with his habits would even notice anything abnormal. The breathing, no longer steady and even, but faintly ragged, as his body dealt with that which drugs couldn't quite overcome. And the stillness. John was normally a restless sleeper. Narcotics immobilized him; they always had. Those few times–and he could count them on one hand–that John had needed anything stronger than an aspirin. . . . Again, a brief smile creased his face in memory. Now, the influence of that same medication created a need in the listener to shake the sleeper, and to count the breaths in order to assure him that John still lived.
Fighting the urge to do just that, he closed the door. He headed toward the next door, then–as voices echoed in the hall–shrank into the darkness.
Two figures cast wavering shadows in the hall. Staggering slightly, they flared as one room's light was turned on. "Give me a wake-up call," Virgil said. He hesitated in the doorway, then added sardonically, "for February."
"What year?" Scott quipped, stumbling toward his own room.
Virgil's answer was muffled as the door hissed closed. Scott chuckled in response, and gained the sanctuary of his own room.
Not only Scott, but Virgil, too? he wondered. Then he remembered that Fermat had removed the guidance processor from Thunderbird Two. And so Virgil had also been working tonight. But now he rests, as will Scott. This is good. He would check on them later.
Three down, he thought He moved onto another room.
Like John, Gordon was a restless sleeper. Only illness–and injury, he reminded himself–stilled them. It had been a long-running family joke that one night, they'd put the two of them in the same bed, just to see what would happen.
But tonight, Gordon's restlessness seemed almost hyperactive. His bed was beyond rumpled, the sheets pulled away from the mattress and twisted about the sleeper, the blanketsin a heap on the floor. As if he were making up for John's stillness. Or wrestling someone in his sleep. He smiled grimly; he could well imagine whom.
He closed the door, and moved onto the final room in the hallway. Pausing in the doorway, he hesitated, afraid of what he might see. Only fourteen, Alan had seen his father and brothers threatened with death, been choked by the Hood in front of his father's eyes, and still managed to . . . well, he didn't want to think about that.
Of all the Tracy boys tonight, he still slept with the same abandon he always had. Thoroughly cocooned in his bedding, he was the only one of the brothers who did that. As if nothing had changed. The privilege of youth, perhaps? But there was a difference in his breathing, noticeably only to one deeply familiar with the youth. As if–like Gordon–he dreamed.
He watched the sleeper. It was curious, he thought, that John and Gordon were the restless ones, slow to fall asleep. While for the other three, sleep came quick and deep. But tonight, Scott and Virgil don't sleep easily, yet Alan does.
Puzzling on this, he moved to the hanger area. The lights there still burned–not abnormally–as Brains was known for working through the night on a given problem. But it was unusual for him to send any of the brothers away while working through a situation such as this, and continue himself.
The hanger was empty. Scattered machine parts–both worn and new–and tools lay about the area. Odd, because Brains was normally a fastidious man. It was possible that the mess was left by Scott and Virgil; but it was not . . . normal. He moved across the hanger to the Hackenbacker quarters. At the entrance, he paused, cautioned by some sense.
The door to Fermat's room was open, but blocked. The boy's father stood in the doorway, watching his son sleep, and listening. Respecting the father's right, the shadowed figure backed away from that small family unit.
Returning to the hanger area, he moved back through the main area, then followed the ramps up to the office and control center. Again, he hesitated before entering. Many secrets were kept on Tracy Island, and it was his privilege to guard most of them.But some secrets were not his to know.
The room was dark. Not as vividly defined as daytime, with only moonlight highlighting its shadows. The full moon, along with its water-reflected light, gave a fey appearance to the area. The lone monitor that remained cast its light on an empty chair.
The office was not empty.
A solitary figure stood by the bank of windows, its back to him. Ramrod-straight, but with denial, not its usual strength. And still. An abnormal stillness that belied the struggle within the man. Injury then, not to the body, but to the soul. A trait shared by only two of his sons.
Kyrano stepped forward, into the moonlight, and waited.
Minutes lengthened as he stood. They stretched into eternity, before the figure finally turned toward him in acknowledgment. "I am sorry, Mr. Tracy," he said.
"You didn't know." The response was rough with emotion.
He had never heard the man speak so before. "I should have known that one so evil could not die," he said, "and so I should have warned you."
The other turned from the windows. Outlined in moonlight, his face remained shadowed. "You're not your brother's keeper," he said sharply, "You couldn't know."
"Perhaps," rejoined Kyrano, "But I knew what he was then. And just as a leopard cannot change his spots, he cannot change what he is. He is evil."
He saw something in the man falter, although the body remained as straight as before. "I gave him his chance."
Kyrano shook his head in wordless denial.
The response was faintly sarcastic. "I didn't give Thunderbird Five defensive weapons." His voice grew bitter. "And they could have prevented this."
Conceding the point, Kyrano said nothing. The silence grew heavy, and the darkness seemed to thicken about them, subduing what little light there was in the office. It seemed to blend with the silence, the two creating a dank and oppressive atmosphere in the office. Almost as if the Hood had returned to Tracy Island, and now stood in the room with them.
As his employer–his friend–reined in his thoughts and emotions, Kyrano anticipated his next question. "The boys sleep," he said, mentally crossing his fingers that Scott and Virgil had indeed joined their brothers in that occupation. "As should you."
The man stiffened, as if in denial, then sagged imperceptibly. "You're right," he said reluctantly. "I'll go soon."
Kyrano waited, face impassive.
"I promise," said Jeff, with a ghost of a smile.
Inclining his head gracefully, Kyrano left the office. He made a brief detour to the sleeping quarters, for a final check. He knew Jeff would look in on the boys–especially John and Alan–before he retired for the night. But this stop was for his own benefit.
Satisfied, he headed to his family quarters. A brief stop at his daughter's bedroom, where–like Alan and Fermat–she slept in the optimism and exhaustion of youth. He watched her for several minutes, before rejoining his wife in their own room. A last, final gesture to the deities, and he fell asleep beside her.
FINI
Author's note: Again, I apologize for whatever format FF.N puts this in. I really detest the tacky look of HMTL formatting, and prefer an old-fashioned, book-like appearance. But I haven't figured out how to work around FF.N's new format, so if this looks sloppy, it's not totally my fault.