Disclaimer: The Thunderbirds do not belong to me. They are the intellectual and actual property of Gerry Anderson and his affiliates. Any original characters are a product of my imagination.
AN: I know, I know, I should have been typing up the next chapter to IBBS, but this little plot bunny sunk it's teeth into my brain and I couldn't shake it, try as I might. This is most definitely part of the saga/series/linked stories I've been writing over the years, and is most definitely a sequel to "Hidden Identity" and stories set prior to that one. Needless to say, OCs established in the other tales will feature in this. Anyway, enough from me... hope you enjoy. :)
Devils in Disguise
The Devil, it transpired, had many faces.
Well, to be more specific, Satan had five.
Five extremely popular, pretty-boy faces.
A prisoner to his belief, the man sat in the shadows of a darkened room, his rocker creaking with every move, forward and back. Newspaper cuttings and magazine articles wallpapered all four walls – bar one gap for a small window – and the ceiling, while photographs coveted from unofficial sources carpeted the wooden floorboards. The man obsessed over the five adversaries; he knew their strengths, he knew their weaknesses, he knew what motivated them to do what they did. He knew all the intimate, personal details that coloured their lives, and he intended to use that to his advantage.
In his hand, he clenched one of the few photographs of his family – his wife, his two sons and his daughter. They had not lived through the devastating earthquake that had struck San Francisco four years ago; they couldn't see what he had become, bitter and twisted after their deaths, with only revenge to live for.
The man blamed the team of Lucifer for their deaths.
But that was about to change. Lucifer would suffer, in the same manner he had suffered. Lucifer would be punished, paying penance for their sins. Lucifer would burn in hell, of that much he was sure.
From the window, the glimmer of a raging inferno glowed a warm orange, sparks occasionally firing off into the sky.
"Come on," he murmured, framing the photos of the Devils with his hands. "Come on, International Rescue. Come to Daddy, so he can serve you your just desserts."