Disclaimer: The Thunderbirds do not belong to me. They are the intellectual property of Gerry Anderson and his affiliates. No money is made from this. This is for enjoyment purposes only.

Hanging On By a Thread

The biggest challenge a Tracy faces is simply holding on long enough to be found.

Deep breath in.

Deep breath out.

That's it, just keep on breathing.

Feel the sweat pool on your palms. Stretch muscles beyond the point of pain. Experience the burn.

You deserve it.

Grasp onto the edge of the cliff face just that little bit tighter. Cry out in pain as fingers turn white from holding on.

What possessed you to go rock-climbing without your safety gear?

Your stomach lurches as you feel your arms slip down a little further. You scowl, impetuous pout appearing on your face. You feel the ligaments in your shoulder snap, twang, twang, twang. You find that the rational side of you – the one that only displays itself on rare occasions – rears its ugly head, and at this current juncture in time, it pisses you off.

Shut up, Brain!

The rock face begins to crumble from under your hand. Hanging on by fingertips now, hanging on by a thread. You feel the blood rush to your face, feel your skin fry from the sun that's beating down on it. At the worst possible time, your tummy grumbles, low and angry, like a grizzly bear. Your thoughts turn to food. An ice-cream or a Popsicle would be welcome now. You can almost taste the cool liquid trickling down your throat, sliding easily into your stomach.

Your fingers slacken.

You fall downwards until your hands secure yourself again, making makeshift grabs onto jagged edges of protruding rock.

Don't think about food.

Can't look up, it's too far, terra firma taunting you. Don't want to look down; don't want to stare Death straight in the eyes.

"Alan?"

You want to scream out your location, but you can't. Your throat has shrivelled up and died. You lose your voice at the time you need it the most.

"Alan, it is lunchtime! Where are you?"

Don't think about food? Fat chance of that happening now. Thanks a lot, big brother of mine.

And finally, after hanging on for so long, Gordon's visage peers down from the apex of the cliff face.

"What're you doing there?" he asks, somewhat stupidly.

Not much, just hanging around, quite literally. I'm having the time of my life.

Then, he realises your problem. Rather unhelpfully, he bursts out into laughter.

"What the hell were you thinking, rock climbing without a harness?" he chortles. "Actually, hazarding a guess, I'd say you weren't thinking at all."

You remain silent; try to keep a handle on your temper. Once again, hanging on by a thread.

"Hang on, I'll get you up."

He hauls you to safety, grunting his exertion out as he hoists you up using safety gear he's fed down to you.

"Whoever wrote He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother, obviously never met you."

You'll take the insult if it means you get to safety.

"Diet, Alan," Gordon gasps, shoving you roughly off him after you unceremoniously collapsed onto him. "You really need to go on a diet. Don't eat a lot at lunch."

You race him back to the villa, ready to stuff your face with food.

Sometimes, you muse, holding on long enough until you're found is the only thing you can do.