"…and blow me into space."

The comm channel goes dead silent. Everyone hears John say it, but Alan's the only one who can do anything about it. Those beats of silence are seconds ticking down towards the end of his brother's life. In his head some voice–his gut, his conscience, his common sense–says No.

Alan, his fingers tightening around TB3's controls and teeth gritting, with all the defiance of youth and fear and righteous anger, says, "Hell no."

The AI with John's life in its non-existent hands is given pause by his big brother's final gambit, and Alan just reacts, the lightning reflexes none of his family can quite believe of him taking hold. To a degree, all of the Thunderbirds are extensions of their pilots. They've all trained long enough that piloting their 'birds is just second-nature. It's something different with Alan, though, almost otherworldly. When Alan's really in the zone, he practically is Thunderbird 3.

And it's Alan, not his ship, who's going to tear his brother's station to pieces.

TB5's mechanical arm is poised in front of his view screen. Alan's staring into that same red-eye, ringed around utter blackness, vicious and vindictive. Alan's being threatened too, and John had better not know that, because there's no way in the world the monster aboard Thunderbird 5 matters more than his family.

There's the mooring claw clamped to his tail fin, but Alan's not going anywhere. The grasping arms are free and he feels the ship beneath him straining its hydraulics, flexing all of its considerable muscle as Alan redirects power from the engines. The first order of business is getting that claw out of his face, and he torques the controls, bringing one of his own ship's arms into play like a weapon. He latches on in the first go, and pulls.

It's easy.

And it's a major system aboard TB5, and EOS screams, a shriek like an old dial-up modem, though no one's heard the sound in nearly half a century.

He hears John yell in protest and through his view screen he can see lights flashing red aboard the space station. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Scott flare to life on the holocomm. His eldest brother is bewildered, but he stops short when he sees the look on Alan's face. There's an order over the communication's channel for Brains to bring up '5s schematics, but Alan doesn't need them. Vaguely he hears Scott telling the engineer to hit the shutdown on 5's comm array, so that Tracy Island is the AIs only escape. It's all software, what Brains can do from the ground, and in full possession of its facilities, EOS could find a way through. The hardware is another story. Alan grits his teeth.

The gravity ring, usually clear, pristine white, a halo of light in the darkness of space, is flashing, flaring red. Alan is reminded of that damned red eye, and he sinks further into himself, into the sheer fury that this thing would hurt his brother.

He's already rocketed forward, playing with the slack of the paid out line from the mooring claw, and twisting his ship, he manages to catch the cable in range of 3's jets. One short flare is all it takes, simultaneously firing the retros, keeping himself stationary. The claw detaches from his tail fins as soon as he severs the cable.

Now he's loose.

Alan's moving even as the ring starts to spin again, whirling up to speed and then braking again almost as soon as it hits its peak. Distantly through the blood red gleam aboard the gravity ring, Alan sees his brother flung against one of the section dividers by the sudden change in momentum, and he flinches at the the sound of an impact, a sharp cry of anguish over the comm channel, cut off midway through as the line goes dead.

"Alan, get in there," Scott's hologram urges, and then he blinks away.

Then in Alan's earpiece over a secure, private line, Brains pipes up, his voice steadier than usual. When it matters, when its one of his adoptive family in relying on his technical knowledge, then he's almost unflappable. "You'll have to separate the gravity ring from the m-main module. Your thrusters should have enough power, b-but be careful. We've lost all status readouts from John."

"Am I gonna be able to get him out?" Alan asks, voice clipped, urgent. He's already lining up his grasping arms again, preparing to latch onto the ring. "He pulled his helmet off. Is there enough air, is it gonna depressurize? Brains, what if-what if h-he..."

"One thing at a time, Alan," Brains cuts him off, reassuring. "Thunderbird 3 built Thunderbird 5. It can take it apart just as easily. There are protocols in p-place for this sort of thing. The gravity ring will s-seal along each sector, you'll be able to c-cut your way in through the port from the comm module. Auxiliary oxygen and power will hold long enough for you to get him out. Once it's s-separate, you'll have to leave him. Your priority h-has to be destroying the comm module. I'm jamming every signal I can, but I've never seen a p-program like this, it won't be long before it g-gets past me. EOS c-can't be allowed to leave Thunderbird 5."

Alan exhales hard, even as he makes contact and locks into the docking ports. It occurs to him, distantly, that this is the last time he'll do so. From this angle, he can't see John anymore and his heart is hammering in his chest. He needs to get his focus back. "Okay."

Locked in, all it takes is a jerk of his controls, and his cockpit lurches as the gravity ring detaches. Outside, if there'd been air to convey the sound, it would have been all screeching metal as he tears the ship apart. It's easy. It's far too easy, and it just reinforces how fragile the station really is. How vulnerable John's always been, how much he trusted his life to his ship.

3 built 5, but it was their father piloting it with John in the co-pilot's seat, all those years ago. Alan had only been ten, when Thunderbird 5 had started to come together. Manufactured on Earth and delivered into orbit, piece by piece. Jeff and John would be gone for weeks at a time, assembling the space station, and when they came back, John would be glowing with excitement, pride in how his 'bird was finally coming together. Their father had conceived it, Brains had designed it, but John had built it, and he was the only one of them who'd had that privilege. And now Alan's tearing it to pieces. The vindictive edge of fury is leaving him-Thunderbird 5 was never what was killing John, but it's been lost to the parasite inside it.

Alan tries not to think about how-if John's still alive-losing '5 is going to kill him.