Canvas Interruptus

by Silver Bee

You'd think a man could get a little peace and quiet on a practically deserted tropical island!

Happy Birthday Loopstagirl! Just remember, you asked for this (well, part of it, anyway!).

A tiny adjustment of an easel followed by a corresponding movement of a chair, the setting out of a tray of paints and a jar of water, paintbrushes of various sizes laid in a line on a convenient nearby rock...

From the crest of a small hill, looking out through some trees and down towards the beach, Virgil surveyed the scene that unrolled in front of him, left almost breathless by its splendour. Not that he wasn't always appreciative of the beauty of Tracy Island - a lot more so than the less artistic members of his family who had grown used to it over the years - but there were times, like now, that he was moved beyond simply looking and into action, caught up in a desperate urge to capture and create, whether in music or, as now, in art.

He was glad. It had been a while since he'd really felt the desire to paint. Not that he'd ignored his muse completely, but that sudden burst of inspiration, that absolute insistence that he put brush to canvas RIGHT NOW had been denied him for several weeks and he'd known that when it did arrive, it wouldn't leave him until he'd satisfied that urge.

For once, this burst of inspiration coincided with a quiet time for the Tracys. Maintenance on all of International Rescue's equipment had been completed, Tracy Industries was running smoothly, and so there was nothing to do but sit back and wait for the next emergency.

Virgil hoped it would be a long time coming.

But despite everything being perfectly set up for a good day's painting, he still hesitated, taking just one more moment to appreciate the full grandeur of his surroundings. It was a day to indulge all the senses, not just sight. The heady scent of the tropical flowers, the tang of salt carried in the warm breeze that blew in from the ocean, the gentle beat of the waves as they lapped the shore... Even the raucous cawing and whistling of the seabirds had its own music. Everything was sharp and defined in the sunlight, extra-clean and bright after days of rain. Right now, there was nowhere in the world he'd rather be.

Some people might have wished they had another person to share it with, but not Virgil. His isolation - he was on the far side of the island, as far away from the house as it was possible to get - just allowed him to fully appreciate every last detail. Anyway, he'd soon capture the scene on canvas and share it that way. If he could do it justice, of course, but the way he felt today, he was sure one of his finest works was just hours from completion.

He picked up a brush, dipped it into the water then reached for his palette. He'd just mixed the perfect shade of blue ready to capture the water's edge and was stretching his hand out towards the canvas when...

"Virgil? Virgil?"

"No!" he thought, holding his breath in the hope that Gordon would give up and go and look somewhere else.

No such luck, though.

"There you are. I've been looking everywhere for you."

Virgil waved an irritated hand in the direction of his easel. "I'm kind of busy right now, Gords."

"I know. Ever since Grandma said she'd seen you heading off with your kit I've been looking for you."

So you knew I wanted to paint and yet you still came out here? Virgil bit back a groan and counted to ten before attempting a tactful deflection. "I really want to get this done, Gordon. Can't whatever it is wait?"

"No. Really. See, I need to talk to you when you've got your artist's hat on."

Virgil scowled. "I wore that outfit once. ONCE. I lost the bet and I wore it, okay? Never again. In fact, since I burnt the thing the moment you let me take it off, I can't wear it again. Now go away."

"I meant metaphorically," Gordon said, failing to go away and sitting himself down on the ground at his brother's side. He frowned at Virgil's raised eyebrow. "What? You think I'm stupid or something? I can do metaphors. Virg, I need your help with something, and it needs to be while you're in an artistic mood. There would have been no point asking you whilst you were doing all that work on the 'birds, you were far too serious. Listen..."

Virgil tried to block out his brother's words. It almost worked. The scene in front of him was so beautiful that he almost did lose himself in it. If any other brother had been talking to him, he'd probably have managed it. But Gordon had always been the loudest and most persistent of the five Tracy boys, and there was no escaping him, not when he moved to stand directly in Virgil's line of sight, leaning forward to pin his brother into his chair and looking him straight in the eye as he outlined his plan.

Virgil gave in and listened. He even liked the idea - not that he'd ever admit it to his brother. But there was still only one answer, the same one he'd have given even if he hadn't been planning a day of painting.

"No."

"But Virg-"

"No."

"Come on, you've got to admit it's sheer genius. It'll drive him crazy."

Virgil put down his brush, turned to face his brother and gave him the full impact of his most steely glare. Gordon flinched only slightly, then ploughed on regardless.

"It's not even as though you're going to be that involved, Virg. You've only got to help at the start. The rest is down to me. I need-"

"You need your head examined if you think I'm going to help you mess up Johnny's research," Virgil said. "You may have a death wish, I don't. Now leave me alone - otherwise I'll tell John what you just said."

Gordon stared at him open-mouthed. "You wouldn't."

"Wouldn't I?"

"Spoilsport." Gordon got sulkily to his feet, then smiled.

"What?"

"What do you mean, 'what'?" Gordon beamed innocently at his brother.

"I know that look, Gords. What are you planning now?"

"Nothing. I don't need to. I know that look, Virg. In less than five minutes you'll be so engrossed in your painting that you'll have forgotten all about this. But it'll be ticking away in the back of your mind, and that artistic brain of yours will come up with the perfect solution without you even trying."

Based on past experience, Virgil thought this was quite possible. Even so... "Doesn't mean I'm going to tell you what I come up with, though."

Gordon smiled. "You will. You won't be able to resist. Like I said, this whole thing is going to be an act of pure genius."

"And like I said, John's going to kill you. Now go away and enjoy what's left of the rest of your life while I get on with my painting."

"Sure. See you later, Virg. Have fun."

Then he was gone, leaving Virgil to ponder his brother's plan for a moment, almost giving in to the temptation to put his painting aside. Almost, but not quite. Gordon knew him too well, Virgil thought ruefully . He'd more than likely come up with something even better if he didn't actively think about it. Actually, maybe they could -

No. There was art to be created and he'd waited too long for this moment.

Still, it was nice to have something else to look forward to...

It took him a while to get his focus back. He'd finally made a start on his artwork when he heard someone call his name.

"Virgil?"

Virgil gritted his teeth. Not only was it another interruption - at this rate the light was going to be all wrong for what he had in mind - but, even worse, it was Alan. Virgil knew that whiny note in his brother's voice. Alan wanted something from him - and Virgil had a feeling he knew exactly what it was. Under normal circumstances he might have agreed, just to save himself weeks of nagging, pouting and sulking, but his brother had chosen the wrong time - and Virgil didn't have any to waste.

"I'm busy, Alan."

Alan only hesitated for a split second before plastering an exaggerated smile onto his face and moving ever closer.

"That's awesome," he said, glancing at the canvas.

Virgil resisted the temptation to tell his brother that if he really considered a splodge of blue to be 'awesome' then he'd better stay away from any art galleries, because the masterpieces in there would probably warp his brain.

Or maybe that had already happened...

"What do you want?"

Alan blinked in surprise at the blunt tone his brother used. He was used to that from John, even Gordon, but rarely from Virgil.

"Why do you think I want something?" he asked.

"Because you always do," Virgil told him. "And you wouldn't have traipsed halfway across the island in the midday sun unless there was something in it for you."

"Charming." Alan didn't take offence - he was too thick-skinned to believe his brother meant it anyway. Virgil was probably just in one of his unpredictable, creative moods, which was actually just what he wanted.

"Well?"

"Okay, maybe there was something. You know how Tin-Tin loves your paintings?"

Virgil sighed. He'd known exactly where this conversation was going to go.

"She does," Alan insisted when it became clear he wasn't going to get a response from his brother. "So I thought you might like to paint her a picture for her birthday."

"I've already bought her something."

"Well that's good. Because I thought the picture could be from me."

Virgil turned to face his brother. "From you? How could a picture I painted be from you, Alan?"

"Well, I could suggest something for you to paint. Like..."

"Not a portrait of you," Virgil said quickly. "In case you'd forgotten, I did one last year."

"Yeah, and she loved it. But not me, no. I was thinking some scene of the island. Like this one. Hey, this is great timing! You'll only stick whatever it is you come up now with on the wall of your studio. It's wasted there. Come on, Virg. For Tin-Tin?"

Alan fixed his most winning smile onto his face. Unfortunately for him, after all these years, Virgil was immune.

"No."

"No? Why?"

Virgil sighed in exasperation. "Alan. Do you really think Tin-Tin would be impressed if you gave her a painting of mine for her birthday?"

"But she'd love it."

"I'm sure she would. But would she love you?"

"Huh?" Alan looked utterly bewildered.

"A present is supposed to show you care about someone."

"I do care."

"Enough to actually go out and buy her something? Spend your own money on her? Put a bit of effort into it instead of getting someone else to do all the work?"

Alan looked hurt. "Well, if you're worried about the cost I'll pay for the paint."

"That's not what I meant, Al."

"I'll... do your maintenance duties for a week."

"You said that when I painted the picture last year," Virgil reminded him. "I'm still waiting."

"Oh, come on, Virg. You like to paint, Tin-Tin likes your work. Where's the difficulty?"

"No. Trust me, Tin-Tin wants a bit more of the personal touch from you this year."

"How do you know what she wants?" Alan pouted. "She's my girlfriend."

"Not for much longer if you carry on like this," Virgil said, turning back to his canvas. "I heard the pair of you arguing the other day. She's feeling taken for granted, Al. Get her something special - you won't regret it."

"Like what?"

"I don't know. Like you said, she's your girlfriend. You must know what she likes by now."

Alan got to his feet with a huff. "Well, thanks for nothing. Honestly, Virg, you're a real grouch sometimes. Scott wouldn't have turned me down."

"So get Scott to paint you a picture," Virgil muttered. "See where that gets you with Tin-Tin."

Alan didn't even bother to respond, instead stomping away with an overdramatic crash through the undergrowth.

And Virgil had twenty minutes of blissful painting time. Until...

"Virgil?"

Give me strength! he thought, forcing himself to smile as he turned to greet his grandmother.

"What are you doing all the way out here, Grandma?" he asked. And with your hips, how long a rest will you need before you go back? It wasn't even as if the woman had brought food for him, despite the fact that it had to be almost lunchtime. He'd just about be able to forgive yet another interruption if one of Grandma's brownies or a couple of cookies was around for compensation, but instead all Grandma carried was...

"Sun cream?"

"You've been out here all morning," Grandma said sternly. "The sun's at its highest and although I'm not a woman to gamble, I'd wager my son's fortune you didn't put sun screen on this morning."

"Grandma..."

"Here." She held out the bottle.

"I'll do it later, Grandma. I'm in the shade, see."

"But in an hour the sun will hit you and you'll be too engrossed in your work to notice you're turning a brighter shade of red than anything on that palette."

"I don't burn, Grandma," Virgil said wearily. "You're confusing me with Gordon."

Grandma smiled affectionately. "As if I'd ever do that, dear. Now, please. If I leave you to 'do it later' you'll forget." She lost the smile as she cast a glance towards the canvas. "Having trouble finding inspiration, darling? You've been out here hours. Is that really all you've done? It's such a beautiful view - isn't it working for you?"

Once again, Virgil closed his eyes and counted to ten. It really wasn't worth ranting at Grandma. She'd tear him to shreds, then, if his father and brothers got to hear about it they'd do the same. Anyway, he was too fond of the woman to take his rapidly increasing irritation out on her. But the next person who stopped him getting on with his work...

"Virgil?"

"Yes, Grandma?"

"You twist the lid, dear. You don't have to squeeze the bottle until it explodes."

"Right." This time Virgil counted to twenty. Feeling about five years old, he applied the sun screen, filled in the patches he missed the first time under the direction of his grandmother, then handed the bottle back with a muttered, "Happy now?"

"Very. You're a good boy, Virgil. You know you wouldn't have thanked me if I'd left you to burn."

"No."

"Do you need anything? I could get you some-"

"No! Really. Please, Grandma, I'm fine."

"Well, dear, if you're sure."

"I am."

"Chicken pie for dinner. Don't be late."

"I won't be."

"I'll be getting back then."

"Right."

Grandma kissed his cheek then threw her arms around him for a hug, her eyes twinkling as he squirmed away in embarrassment.

"Alright, darling, I'll leave you be."

Virgil listened to her slow footsteps as they got fainter then turned back to his work. But it only took a few seconds before he started to feel bad. Putting down his brush he got to his feet and hurried after the old woman. The slope could be treacherous and he didn't want an injured grandmother on his conscience.

It took ten minutes to get the woman safely back on level ground. Returning to his chair, he picked up his brush again and reached out towards the canvas, wondering if he'd ever get this painting finished.

When Tin-Tin appeared, Virgil thought that, as unwelcome as the presence of something he didn't want to capture in his work might be, he'd be able to ignore it. After all, she was a lot quieter than either of the brothers who'd been up to bother him, and she didn't fuss over him like his grandmother did. No, he thought, Tin-Tin's presence was an irritation but nothing more. So it looked as though she'd decided on a little sunbathing siesta, taking some time-out from all her labouring in the lab as she assisted Brains with yet another fiendishly clever invention, but he didn't have to do the beach just yet; he could look over her towards the sea. That part at least could be completed by the time she went back to work.

But ignoring Tin-Tin proved a lot more difficult than Virgil had anticipated. He'd never thought about her lack of tan lines before - he didn't actually see her in that way at all - but now, as the girl removed her wrap, revealing that she was wearing nothing but the tiniest pair of bikini bottoms, before laying down on the sand and stretching luxuriantly, Virgil suddenly didn't know where to look. All he knew was that he couldn't look at Tin-Tin - or anywhere in her general direction.

There was no way he could move away, either. Although the foliage would stop her seeing him, she'd certainly hear him, and then she'd be utterly embarrassed - as would he. Alan wouldn't be impressed, either, and Virgil prayed that Tin-Tin wouldn't mention where she'd been that afternoon, or at least wouldn't tell him what she'd been doing. The youngest Tracy was quick to take offence where Tin-Tin was concerned and the prospect of any brother seeing his girlfriend like this would surely lead to a lot more than the usual pouting. Virgil was more than confident he could take Alan in a fight - hell, even Grandma could probably do that - but he didn't want any trouble in the first place. He knew Tin-Tin wouldn't either.

So, desperate to focus on something else, he painted the sky. The sun dazzled him and he saw more sunspots than anything else, but still he frantically painted. Anything to avoid catching even the tiniest glimpse of the girl.

When, almost an hour later, Tin-Tin got to her feet, pulled the wrap back around her and trotted happily back towards the villa, Virgil buried his head in his hands and wondered if he'd be able to see straight again. Still, better to be seeing the sunspots that danced in front of his eyes, than...

Stop it! he ordered himself.

Another interruption would have been welcome at that point, just as a distraction, but typically all was quiet. Virgil slowly regained both his sight and his composure, then picked up his brush once again, happy to be able to return to his depiction of the beach. But not that Tin-Tin shaped indentation in the sand.

Oh no.

Definitely not that.

Kyrano's interruption actually wasn't one. The man had slipped into the clearing so quietly that Virgil hadn't noticed him. He'd placed a plate and a glass at the artist's side, then disappeared as swiftly and silently as he'd arrived. Virgil remained totally oblivious, focused solely on capturing the subtle variations in shade of a drift of sand against a rock.

Only when he reached out with his paintbrush, not needing to actually look for the jar of water, so used was he to everything being in a certain place, did he realise that he'd had another visitor. When his brush hit something solid rather than liquid, he was completely thrown, jarred right out of the serenity and focus he'd finally managed to achieve.

The result? One paintbrush and one sandwich were both completely ruined - equalling one very unhappy artist. Although he'd inadvertently ingested a considerable amount of paint over the years, though admittedly in very much smaller quantities now than in his toddler days, Virgil had never developed a liking for the taste. The sandwich - his favourite, too - was only good for the birds now.

Cursing Kyrano for his courtesy and consideration, Virgil irritably snatched up the second sandwich and wolfed it down, gulping down the orange juice quickly, too. Looking on the bright side, at least this meant that he wouldn't be plagued by well-meaning fathers, brothers or grandmothers with reminders that even artists needed to eat. Surely he now had an uninterrupted afternoon's painting ahead of him.

Well, it was an uninterrupted twenty minutes or so...

Virgil was finally in the zone, that perfect state where hand, eye and brain worked in absolute harmony - along with something else, that indefinable something that turned a picture into a masterpiece. This was really going to be one of his best pieces. Maybe his very best. Interruptions were forgotten as Virgil settled into a state of artistic bliss.

Of course, that was when his watch beeped.

John.

Not just a social call, either. The signal alone would have told him he was needed - that Thunderbird Two was needed - but in the far distance he could hear the klaxon too, calling all members of International Rescue to the command centre. Someone somewhere was in desperate need of help and no work of art, however glorious, could take precedence over that.

It didn't mean Virgil had to be happy about it.

Oh no. Too often these days he'd found himself growing irritable at the carelessness of those he was called out to rescue. It was almost as if the world had started taking more risks as it came to realise that a new form of help was out there. John vetted all calls, of course, but every so often it was clear that the regular emergency services could have handled things, and yet the presence of International Rescue gave a situation a prestige and glamour it wouldn't have had under normal circumstances. Sometimes Virgil felt like a rock star - a reluctant one, to be sure, and one who couldn't take advantage of the hordes of girls who congregated at the site of a disaster in the hope of getting a glimpse - or more - of one of the heroes of the rescue organisation. Gordon (and Alan, to a lesser extent) thrived on that kind of thing, but Virgil, like John and Scott, preferred to keep his head down and get on with the job.

Realising that he was wasting time - and it would take him at least fifteen minutes to get back to the house even if he ran at full speed, Virgil set off down the uneven slope back to the path. He knew he should call in and tell John he was on his way, but that would waste precious time.

The klaxon had cut out, but his watch was still frantically beeping and vibrating. Virgil really didn't need the distraction and as he nearly broke an ankle on a tree root, barely avoiding falling flat on his face, he cursed John and his ill-timed calls, his simulations and his test routines.

Test routines?

Coming to an abrupt stop wasn't a good idea, not when gravity and momentum had him in their grasp. Virgil's feet might have stopped, but the rest of him carried on. The result was painful and humiliating. As he picked himself up from the bottom of the slope where he'd finally come to rest, he brushed dirt and leaves from his clothes and sucked blood from a grazed arm, finally able to get his head together.

It was Monday. Monday afternoon. 3pm. Every Monday at 3pm John ran a test of International Rescue's communication equipment. It wasn't an emergency. What he should have done was to acknowledge the signal then carry on with whatever he'd been doing.

Of course, what he'd been doing had captured his attention so entirely that he'd lost all sense of time and place.

It had all been going so well - finally. Now he'd been distracted yet again. It was beginning to look like this painting was doomed. At least, the masterpiece he'd been hoping to produce was. He was never going to get that groove back now.

A wave of frustration swept over him. His watch was still frantically vibrating and beeping and he jabbed at it in irritation.

"What took you so long? I thought there was a fault in the system." John clearly wasn't happy.

Virgil debated whether to calmly explain that he'd been painting - John would have understood, knowing full well how engrossed his artistic brother could get in his work - but he'd had a bad day and, seeing how cool, calm and collected his brother looked, and knowing that his own appearance right now wouldn't win him any prizes, he couldn't help but vent all his annoyance on his brother.

Whether the breathless, incoherent rambling made any sense to John was debatable, but to give him his due, he didn't try to interrupt.

Five minutes later, Virgil finally ran out of steam.

"Finished?" John asked.

Virgil nodded and slumped against a tree trunk.

"Deep breath, Virg."

Virgil did as he was told.

"Right. Now go back to your painting. I promise I won't interrupt you again."

"What if there's a rescue?"

"Not even then."

"Huh?" Virgil looked confused.

"Virg, I know you. When you're in this kind of mood you're no good to anyone. If I do send you on a callout you'll probably fly to the wrong coordinates and blow up a perfectly innocent bridge or something."

"Would not." Virgil scowled, the expression only deepening when John laughed.

"Would too. No, Virg, you go and paint. I've got a systems check to finish. Catch you later."

Then he was gone, leaving Virgil to wonder whether to thank him or make some attempt to salvage some dignity.

Maybe he would help Gordon out after all!

He stood there for a minute or two, wondering whether to give up and go home. But the lure of the canvas was too strong, and finally he began the trek back up the hill.

Returning to his easel, he picked up his chair and set it upright again. Another ruined paintbrush was tossed aside - this one had dried out in the sun and was beyond saving. Just as well he'd brought plenty with him. But he'd hoped to wear them out with a frantic painting session, not to be throwing them away practically unused.

Taking another brush, he dipped it in the water and reached for his palette.

Then he put it down again.

He counted up the inhabitants of Tracy Island - ten including himself. So far he'd been interrupted by three brothers, a grandmother and both Kyranos. The way his luck was running, the rest of them would be following suit. Well, not Scott, who'd known of his plans and wouldn't dream of interrupting him unless it was a matter of the direst urgency, or Brains, who wouldn't shift from his lab until whatever he was working on had been perfected. When Virgil had spoken to him yesterday evening, he'd gathered that that moment was some days away.

No, the only possible distraction was going to come from his father.

Virgil was a practical man. He had to be, in his line of work. Deciding that he'd just pre-empt the inevitable interruption from the one person who couldn't be ignored or fobbed off, he activated his watch.

"Virgil?" Jeff Tracy was clearly surprised to be contacted via his communicator. "Is everything alright?"

"Everything's fine, Dad," Virgil told him. "I just wondered if everything was alright with you."

His father just looked even more puzzled, and Virgil guessed that no one had told the man what had happened so far that day. Not wanting to get into a lengthy account of his disastrous attempts to paint - he knew his father didn't understand that artistic urge, as much as he appreciated the results - he thought quickly, before saying,

"That Russian contract you were working on. I just wondered if you'd made any progress."

The puzzled look didn't change. Jeff was resigned to the fact that all of his sons found International Rescue far more motivating and exciting than any projects the regular business could offer. For any of his boys to suddenly take an interest in the minutiae of contract negotiations was unheard of.

"It's moving on slowly," he said, more than a little cautiously.

"Good," Virgil said. "I wouldn't want there to be any problems."

"You're interested in the deal?" Now there was no mistaking the bewilderment in his father's voice. But Virgil still didn't want the aggravation of explaining the real situation.

"Sure," he said, airily. "I had some input into the design, remember. I was there when the prototype came off the production line. I'd like to see where my work ends up."

Jeff's expression finally changed, confusion morphing into surprise, then delight. Had his dream finally come true? Was one of his sons finally ready to take some real responsibility in the company?

"Well," he said. "If you feel that way, how about you fly out next week for the final negotiations? You've got the authority you need to sign the contracts for me. It'll be your first real chance to close a deal."

Virgil was only half-listening. All of a sudden, the sun had come out from behind the wisp of cloud where it had been hiding and the improved illumination meant that the beauty of the scene had hit him anew.

"Yeah," he muttered, just itching to disconnect the call and pick up his paintbrush again. "Sure."

"That's wonderful!" It was rare that Jeff showed such open enthusiasm and Virgil was jolted out of his reverie and into a sudden realisation of exactly what he had agreed to. The Russian company was in Siberia, and right now that region was in the grip of the coldest winter in decades. He'd met the company executives when he'd last been at company headquarters, and a more intense and humourless bunch of guys it would be hard to find. The last thing he wanted was to leave the warmth and laid-back pace of life on Tracy Island to risk frostbite as he argued over a contract.

"Yeah," he muttered, through gritted teeth. "Great."

Well, time spent arguing was time which could have been spent painting...

"You'll need to-"

"Can I come and talk to you about it after dinner?" Virgil asked. Just a few hours of peace, that was all he wanted.

"Of course." Jeff beamed. "I'll cancel my conference call with the New York office. We don't want any interruptions, do we?"

"No." Virgil almost choked on the irony.

"Well, then, I'll see you at dinner. Thank you, Virgil. It means a lot to know you feel this way."

And that put paid to any hopes the soft-hearted Virgil had of finding some way out of all this. Signing off, he let out a cry of frustration, much to the surprise of a flock of seabirds who fluttered into the air in panic.

Right, Virgil thought. That's it. At least I'm guaranteed a bit of peace and quiet. I'll worry about Siberia later. Right now, I'm going to work on this painting.

I am.

And so he did.

For a whole forty-five minutes...

Despite not having expected him, Virgil felt a real sense of the inevitable when Scott turned up. He couldn't be irritated this time, though. Not when he realised that Scott had sought out this stretch of the coastline for a reason. It was rare that his brother took time out for himself, but it seemed this was what Scott was doing right now. He didn't seem to be looking for him, anyway - he'd known Virgil had wanted to paint, and he respected his brother's art too much to deliberately disrupt the creative process. No, Scott's arrival appeared to be sheer coincidence, and Virgil hoped he'd be able to ignore him. Okay, that tactic hadn't worked so well with Tin-Tin, but then he hadn't expected her to-

Stop it! he told himself.

Again.

It had begun with an insistent droning - barely perceptible at first and, given the way Virgil had become absorbed by his artwork, only noticed by him a long time after anyone else would have been annoyed by it. But when Virgil did register it - only after a sudden flash of metal in sunlight had dazzled him back to reality - he couldn't help smiling as first the model airplane, then his brother, appeared on the beach.

He'd built the plane himself as a birthday present for his older brother, hoping to find some way of helping the field commander relax. Scott was always on duty, Virgil thought, whether involved in a rescue, assisting their father, or simply looking out for his four brothers. It was good to see him kicking back for once. He debated whether or not to include the model craft in his painting, then decided against it. Scott would only become self-conscious at having his downtime witnessed, and Virgil didn't want to embarrass his brother. Besides, given the way Scott was making the craft swoop and soar, there was no way he'd be quick enough to capture the image anyway.

He watched for a few minutes before turning back to his painting, hoping that this particular visitor would stick around for a while. Heaven knew he needed the break. But all too soon, Scott brought the craft in to land. Virgil sighed, glancing at his watch and seeing that it was 4pm exactly. Scott always stuck to a regimented routine, the legacy of his Air Force days, even when it came to having fun. Virgil fully expected his brother to head back to the house in order to pick up his usual duties, but to his surprise, Scott simply put down his remote control, then looked cautiously up and down the beach, then up towards where his brother was hidden in the forest. He clearly didn't notice Virgil, because if he had, then his brother knew he would never have done what he did next.

It seemed Scott had found more than one way to relax.

At first Virgil thought his brother was just running through some of the Tai Chi exercises Kyrano had taught him. That was certainly what it looked like at first, but then the artist realised that his brother was just warming up. The music he'd chosen to accompany his movements came as a bit of a surprise, though Virgil was genuinely touched that Scott had seen fit to make his own copy of the piano pieces he'd recorded for their grandmother years ago, just before he'd left for college.

Then Virgil realised what Scott was really up to, and the choice of music suddenly made sense. With a final furtive glance around him, though still not registering his brother's presence, the eldest Tracy began to move.

Virgil actually rubbed his eyes, so stunned was he by what he was witnessing. Was he was really seeing what he thought he was?

He was.

Scott was dancing.

But it was the style of dance that really stunned Virgil.

Ballet.

Clumsy and flat-footed to be sure, but unmistakably ballet.

Clapping a hand over his mouth, dropping his paintbrush and completely oblivious as it slid slowly down his shirt leaving a vibrant streak of blue in its wake, Virgil did his best not to let his laughter ring out. After all, he really didn't want to disturb his brother - not because he didn't want to embarrass him - and Scott would probably flee Tracy Island for good if he realised he'd been seen - but because this was quite possibly the funniest thing Virgil had ever seen in his life, and he didn't want the show to be cut short.

Several minutes later, when he was finally able to gather his thoughts into some semblance of coherence, Virgil remembered a conversation which had taken place during a recent visit by Lady Penelope. The brothers had just returned from a rescue and had been discussing ways of improving their balance and coordination, both of which had been in short supply as they'd negotiated precariously narrow ledges. Scott himself had slipped and only Virgil's quick reactions had prevented him from falling into a raging pit of fire.

Penny had considered this for a moment, then announced that a friend of hers was in the corps de ballet at Sadler's Wells, the most poised and elegant person one could ever wish to meet. If Penny was to be believed, she herself looked like an arthritic elephant when in the woman's company. Perhaps the brothers might want to consider taking up the dance form as a way of developing the skills that had been missing that afternoon? Of course, the boys had laughed long and hard at the idea - Scott included. Gordon had got up and performed a few deliberately clumsy movements before engaging them all in a debate about the best colour of tutu to complement his hair, and they'd only laughed the harder.

Penny hadn't lost her composure, simply smiling as she told them that they shouldn't be quite so quick to dismiss the idea. After all, she'd said, they didn't laugh at Kyrano when he taught them Tai Chi, and her friend had spent time working with a local rugby team, men who certainly weren't lacking in masculinity. Yes, they'd been decidedly embarrassed at first, but once their agility and coordination had improved and they'd shot to the top of their league, they'd soon admitted that the benefits had outweighed that initial awkwardness. Now Penny's friend was giving classes to several sports teams.

The brothers still hadn't taken it seriously. Days after Penny's departure, Virgil only had to play the hint of a refrain from 'Swan Lake' in order to reduce them to paroxysms of laughter, much to their father's bewilderment.

But it looked as if Scott might have taken Penny's words to heart, after all. And he'd clearly been putting in some practice, because Virgil would have sworn that he wouldn't have been able to stand on one leg for as long as he did, nor jump from rock to rock in such a sprightly manner. Nor would he ever have been able to spin around so fast, barely disturbing the sand under his feet. Virgil would have been impressed - if it hadn't been so damned funny. It was the sweeping and dramatic arm movements that did it: they were just so un-Scott-like.

Then a thought struck Virgil and his laughter caught in his throat.

If Scott could see the benefits to himself... he'd want his brothers to give it a try too.

Well, Virgil was all for watching Gordon, Alan and John make fools of themselves, but he wasn't going to return the favour. No, this craziness had to end, right now. He raised his fingers to his mouth, intending to treat his brother to an appreciative wolf-whistle.

But then he hesitated. Any other brother and he wouldn't have hesitated to reveal that he'd witnessed them engaging in some furtive and embarrassing activity - well, maybe not John, since it wasn't advisable to set his older blond brother the challenge of coming up with some plan of revenge - but this was Scott, his best friend. He had a hard enough time getting his brother to unwind as it was. The last thing he wanted was to take away this new form of relaxation. Scott did actually seem to be enjoying himself as he launched himself into the air, pirouetting not once but twice, much to Virgil's amazement, before flinging himself dramatically to the ground as the music came to an end.

No, he couldn't do it. He couldn't reveal what he knew. In fact, Virgil decided, he should try to put it out of his mind completely, pretend he'd never seen it, never think about it again.

Shouldn't he?

Of course he should.

Definitely.

After all, he wasn't the kind of brother who would take advantage of the situation, was he? Yes, the scene was just begging to be captured on paper, but for what reason? Art? Or something else? Of course, Virgil wasn't the type to use something like this as potential blackmail material, to threaten to reveal all next time Scott wanted him to do something he didn't want to do.

Was he?

Was he really?

Hell, yes!

Virgil grabbed a pencil...

An hour later, he had his picture. Not the one he'd planned on producing, of course - that was barely half-finished. But the image of Scott in a tutu the exact same shade of blue as Thunderbird One had ultimately proven more powerful than the reality of the scene in front of him. Tomorrow, he thought. The trees, the beach, the sea, all of them would still be there tomorrow. He'd do it then.

Oh yes, he would.

The next morning, after visiting each member of his family in turn and asking to be left alone, then applying copious amounts of sun screen before picking up a picnic basket from Kyrano and checking with Tin-Tin that her duties with Brains wouldn't allow her any free time that day, Virgil took himself back to the clearing.

And that was that, he thought, twisting the top off a beer and reaching for his paintbrush. No more interruptions, guaranteed.

At least, there had better not be. Of course, there was always the possibility of International Rescue being needed somewhere. He narrowed his eyes threateningly at the sky in a general warning to anyone and everyone to stay out of trouble, at least for the next few hours. Then, after a few minutes spent just enjoying the perfect tranquillity, he began to paint.

It was perfect, he thought. Even better than yesterday. The blossom on the tree was even more breathtaking, the sunlight sparkled more brightly on the ocean, the glint of metal in the bushes wasn't too dazzling, the one wisp of cloud in the shape of an-

The glint of metal in the bushes?

Virgil's gaze swivelled back towards the bush in question. He watched in bewilderment, then in annoyance as the thin figure of Brains came into view, a hover-trolley following behind him on which rested some tarpaulin-covered object.

Virgil cursed. Why hadn't he thought to warn Brains off? The one inhabitant of the island who hadn't participated in the communal attempt to drive him demented the previous day. The one person who he'd thought he wouldn't need to ask to leave him alone. Brains had been shut up in his lab for the past week, frantically working on some new invention. Virgil had barely seen him. He hadn't expected him to suddenly emerge from his isolation, and certainly not to bring himself over to this part of the island.

Half holding his breath and hoping the man didn't stop on the beach, Virgil watched as Brains paused, wiped his brow, looked around him then, thankfully, began to move away. Without stopping to wonder why the man should be there, or what he was transporting so carefully, Virgil simply breathed a sigh of relief and turned back to his canvas.

Two minutes later and the tree was taking shape. Virgil took a moment to rest his brush down and turn his gaze onto to the wider scene. For that reason he was able to witness the moment that Brains finally realised his ambition to create a device which would obliterate one particular object whilst leaving everything around it intact.

In typical Brains' fashion, the obliteration was dramatic, the target blazing fire for a few seconds before shattering into a billion pieces. The flash was so bright that Virgil had to look away. Blinking furiously against the after-image of the blaze, he finally focused his eyes back on the tree.

Or at least, on where the tree used to be...

The tree he'd been so determined to capture on canvas, the tree that had been one of the most beautiful things on the island.

Gone.

As a smiling Brains emerged from the undergrowth, something that looked like an oversized bazooka in his hands, Virgil let out a yell which his brothers would have recognised from years ago as a war-cry. As Brains looked around in bewilderment - and not a little fear - Virgil launched himself out of his chair, kicking paint, picnic and water jar aside, grabbing his canvas and charging down towards him.

Whether Brains understood a word his friend was saying - or yelling, to be more accurate - was debatable, but the look of utter fury on Virgil's face was warning enough. The man took one look at the enraged artist, dropped his weapon and made a run for it.

It was only a convenient - or inconvenient, depending whether you looked at it from Virgil's or Brains' point of view - tree root which tripped Virgil up and sent him sprawling down the last ten feet or so, that saved Brains that morning. By the time Virgil had struggled to his feet, spitting out curses and sand, the genius was gone. Virgil picked up the pieces of his broken canvas and let out another enraged cry.

That was it! Destiny had decreed that this painting wasn't meant to be. Well, okay, Virgil wasn't going to argue. He'd just give her a helping hand and put an end to the whole saga of misery.

Picking up Brains' gadget, he aimed it at the canvas. A blaze of fiery glory, he thought. A fitting end to something that had had the potential to be so spectacular, but had instead caused nothing but aggravation.

Unfortunately for Virgil, when Brains had dropped the device, the settings had been knocked to a different position. Sure enough the canvas was obliterated, but that wasn't the end of it. Flames soon raced along the length of the forest and the artist found himself having to run for his life.

Trapped on the beach with the wind blowing thick smoke in his direction, he had no option but to retreat ever further into the sea. The fire showed no sign of burning out and Virgil knew that things would soon get out of control if he didn't do something quickly.

There was only one option.

Virgil decided that he was going to give up painting and stick to the piano. At least he had blackmail material to use on Scott, Gordon and Alan (Tin-Tin wouldn't take kindly to the fact that he'd tried to wheedle his way out of getting her a decent birthday present), so maybe they wouldn't tease him too much. John was more of a problem, but then if he helped Gordon out it might distract his brother. His father wasn't going to be happy, though, and there was no blackmail option there...

Choking on a particularly strong lungful of smoke, he realised time had run out. He'd just have to take the consequences - whatever they were.

Suddenly he couldn't wait to get to Siberia.

Lifting his watch, he hit the transmit button.

"Calling International Rescue..."