I don't own Thunderbirds. Or Muse or any of their songs.

As Bedtime and Dinner Party have been received so well I've written this fic and have one more in the works to round off this arc.

Thanks to the reviewers of Dinner Party and all your comments.

Risk Assessment

Uniform on, Mind in gear, Braced for anything

Thunderbirds Are Go!

Alan just called in. We've got a mission. Do our jobs save lives; make the world a safer place.

I board Thunderbird two take a passenger seat and run over protocol. Lists of instructions I have long since memorised. Ingrained in my mind like the Judges Caveman beats Astronaut arguement (Highly flawed by the way). The forensics psychologist's arugement: The only way to reduce violence is to kill everybody. The Marine Biologists version of We Are the Champions.

A perfect launch and we are speeding through the skies. Virgil and Scott relay information between each other and to father on the Island.

We land offload equipment and assess the damage. The integrity. The best plan of action.

Scott had his behind firmly parked at mobile control talking to various people, telling them not to worry.

I sigh; he's got the easy bit. Virgil unloads the pod, the number and piece of equipment irrelevant.

They relay instructions and words of encouragement. I process it all in some sort of adrenaline assisted auto pilot.

For some reason as I press buttons and flick switches I recall a memory of Uni. I was venturing scrambled eggs with toast in the dorm kitchen my previous attempt resulting in a trip to the bin. The forensic psychologist, who had spent the weekend visiting her aunt and uncle, came into the kitchen as asked if she should get the fire extinguisher in her sarky joke tone. Feeling bold by the fact that they were done, minimal burning I told her that I was surprised she didn't need hospital treatment everyday because of her razor sharp wit. She congratulated me; I must have picked up some things hanging out with her. And my wits sharpened so much I gave her a run for her money. Of course my brothers thought she was a bitch and my father called her a bad influence.

I get little time to practise them. Whilst Uni gave me an appreciation of that British Institution, Sarcasm, I found that smoothly contrived insults came easier, important in a heated discussion.

I absentmindedly tap the keys. Pushed a button and put the beast into motion, at ease with the controls, computer data streaming in adjusting the course.

I remember my three friends singing Theres A Starman at a karaoke bar. They sung that for me their three distinct voices blent into one with perfect pitch and tone raising smiles all round.

I'm in deep. Closing in on the rescuee's. Procedure and protocol run through my mind and are marked off. Point after point rushing through as I continue to the victims.

Victims. We're all victims. Victims of hate, anger. Victims by our parents who push us into things. Victims by our siblings all wanting something different.

Here are another bunch of faceless victims. People whose luck is down. Wrong place, wrong time. Another few for the tally. How many lives now? The world had faith in us. To catch us when they fall.

I've picked myself up to many times to count. Always moving on. Dealing with it. I've lost faith in things may change.

The beeping tells me I'm through. Buttons are pressed. Messages radioed.

Everythings caving in. I see one person limping, who hasn't made it to safety. Without pause or consideration I jump, grab them and haul them ahead. Debris crashes around me fragments giving me cuts and bruises.

Everyone was saved. But for how long? The machine takes us out of the ruins. Ambulance crews tend to the wounded. Equipment is put away. Having dallied with the mortals we return to Mount Olympus.

I take the passenger seat in Thunderbird two again. I ignore the discomfort of the cuts and bruises and just sit there lost in thought. I wasn't in the mood for conversation.

We land. All I want is a shower and some sleeping pills. The permanent state of overtired is really starting to grate. I don't care if my cuts need disinfecting and I haven't eaten dinner yet.

I disembark the giant piece of snot and head for the ensuite attached to my room. I dodge Gordon and brush off father. I just want a shower. I lock my door put on some music, turn up the volume, and place the stereo by the bathroom door locking that.

Hopefully some peace.

I shower, clean up and opt for the familiar comfort of jeans, t-shirt and a zip up top.

I flip through my mail. The wavy script of the Marine Biologist, the impeccable lettering of the Judge. The crisp handwriting of the Forensic Psychologist on a package instead of an envelope.

Along with a letter the Forensic Psychologist has sent me a disk with a vague description of its contents. Intrigued I load it up. Each is a video file. Camcorder moments!

The to be Forensic psychologist dancing to Muse

The to be lawyer now judge attempting to cook pasta and blowing up the sauce

The to be Marine Biologist doing homework on her head

Me moshing to Motorhead

Rehearsals for the dancing competition (First prize!)

The time we got stuck in traffic on our way back from spring Alaska

That song the Forensic Psychologist used to sing when she was down.

Smiling at the memories I put the CD in its case and onto my rack

I don't feel like dinner. I plead sickness and slouch around my room listening to music. I case of emergencies I dug out some chocolate and water from the back of my wardrobe. No-one comes and asks me about the mission or my downcast mood. I get a delivery of leftovers and that was it.

The to be Forensic Psychologists dance sprung to mind as well as the final lyric

Feeling My Faith Erode