Disclaimer: The Thunderbirds do not belong to me. They are the intellectual and actual property of Gerry Anderson and his affiliates.

AN: Well, after writing Free Falling, Teobi asked if there could be an expansion on Scott's first solo flight and his mishap in the Piper Cherokee. The Plot Bunny seized on the idea, and the result is this. I didn't mean for it to be this long, but The Plot Bunny ran away with it. Teobi, and all the other readers, hope you enjoy.

Perfect Practice Makes Perfect

Believe it or not, it's actually morning right now.

Despite the full moon, looking like a yellow ball of holey cheese in the sky, it is in fact four past two in the morning, on the 6th of July. A Saturday.

On the calendar that hangs on the wall above John's bed - he, Virgil and I share a room; Gordon and Alan have the smaller bedroom in the farmhouse – the date has been circled in a thick, red marker. To John and Virg, it has no special significance – for Virgil, it is another day that could be used to tinker with the vacuum cleaner's components – hopefully not destroying the contraption like he did with the toaster, compose a new piece on his piano or practice his portrait drawing skills. To John, it is another day he can spend in our old tree house, curled up with his latest Kathy Reichs murder mystery novel. Or he may head downtown to the local teen retreat, attempt to pick up another girl to add to his collection. How, at the age of fifteen, he's decided that he wants to be a philanderer is something I cannot fathom, but to each their own. Hopefully, this should be a passing phase. It is another day he can spend fiddling with his telescope. All triumphs in their own right.

For me, the day heralds a different sort of triumph. Today is the day of my first solo flight. Today marks the beginning of my independence. I let my pride swell at that fact.

The prospect of flying solo excites me, fills me with unbridled, raw nervous energy. I've never done it before. I mean, sure, I've flown before, but there's always been someone with me in the cockpit. Like a back-up plan in case something goes drastically wrong, like my propeller drops off.

Actually, if the propeller drops off, we're all out of luck, experienced pilot or not. The plane would plummet like a pebble from the sky, with the both of us still inside it. I can't wait until I join the Air Force; they provide ejector seats to counteract that.

My legs jitter from where they hang off the edge of the bed. I can't sit still.

Can't sleep.

Too wired with adrenaline for today.

I slide myself off the bed, bare feet landing with a soft thud on the wooden floorboards and creep my way over to John.

"John?" I prod him in the shoulder. Of all the Tracys, he's the lightest sleeper, so it doesn't take much to wake him.

He grunts, blinking sleepily as I loom over him, in a totally not creepy way. "Whaddaya want?" he mumbles, pushing his luminous blond hair out of his eyes.

"Know what day it is?" I ask, bouncing on the balls of my feet, eyes glowing ethereally in the darkness of the room, as do John's.

In the background, Virgil snores, a long, low rumble, as if to say yes, I do know what day it is. No, I really don't care about it.

"Go back to sleep," John huffs, rolling away from me, irritated that I had woken him up for that.

From behind me, I sense Virgil moving. I pivot on the spot, just in time to have the pillow he's thrown at me land forcefully on my chest. Surprised, I grab onto it, just in time, before it hits the floor.

"What was that for?" I hiss indignantly.

Virgil, conveniently, ignores me. "Either he goes or I go," he informs John.

"He goes," John replies, climbing out of bed.

"Seconded," Virgil agrees, not giving me a moment to protest.

Teamed up together, they pin my arms down by side and frog-march me out the door. The door closes with a slam, and I hear the lock slide shut. I stand outside, in shock. My brain takes a few minutes, but it eventually processes what just happened.

I can't believe I've been forcefully evicted out of my third of the room. By my little brothers, no less!

From below, my tummy grumbles. It always does that when I'm nervous. Or excited. Or hungry. This time, it's a combination of the three. I traipse down to the kitchen, carefully avoiding the creaky middle stair and make some microwaveable mac-and-cheese.

With my radioactive orange coloured snack in hand, I make my way to the rec room.

A glance up at the clock.

Quarter past.

I sigh as I collapse onto my favourite armchair and sigh, channel surf the television before eventually settling on Dr. No.

Even James Bond can't speed up the slow crawl of the morning.

The car ride to the air field is, in reality, about forty five minutes away in good traffic. Longer if there's been an accident. To me, it feels like a lifetime, and then some.

I ride shotgun beside Dad. With slit-like eyes – I worry that he's about to fall asleep - and one hand on the steering wheel, he reaches to the storage column between us, grabbing the thermos that sits in the cup holder. He slurps appreciatively, slopping some brown liquid on his shirt as he jerks the wheel to avoid a pot hole, eyes springing wide open.

"Y'know, Dad, I could always drive while you cat-nap," I offer tentatively, knowing that it's my fault he's sleep deprived. Maybe waking him up at the crack of dawn wasn't the smartest idea I've had in a long time, especially since he had just come home from a business trip in Tokyo and was suffering from the crippling effects of jet lag. But I was so excited, I couldn't help myself. I wanted Dad to share in my excitement, the same way he did when I got my driver's licence and first car.

He shakes his head vehemently. No one drives Dad's car, except the man himself, simply because they cannot wrangle the keys from his possession. In a few years, I'd wager that Gordon could probably sneak them out from under Dad's nose, or at the very least, hot wire the engine.

"Just for the record, son," he grumbles, "I don't nap. Naps are for the elderly, sick or extremely young. Naps are for someone who's your grandmother's age and older."

I lips twitch upwards, corners of my mouth forming a smile. "I'll let Grams know you said that."

Dad's head swivels towards me. I can see the cogs of self-preservation turning in his mind. "Do you want this flying lesson?" he asks, voice overly sweet.

It's a stupid question, so I respond sarcastically, "Do you breathe, Dad?"

"Son, let's get one thing straight; you tell your grandmother what I said, and I'll make sure that the cops don't find your body."

I'm speechless by his implication. I don't quite know if I should laugh at this, or fear the fact that my father has no qualms about murdering his eldest – and favourite, even though he continues to deny this – son to save his own skin.

Dad pulls up into a car spot neatly, as close to the flight school as possible. Out on the tarmac, sitting on the Delta offshoot of the runway, is the most stunning thing I've seen in my sixteen years of existence.

The Piper Cherokee, is by no means the newest plane on the market. Nor is she the newest plane in the airfield. In fact, she is one of the older planes here, with the dents and doubler plates to prove her age. There are spots where superficial damage has occurred, with paint flaking off her, but I could care less about that.

She's there, she's ready and willing and she's mine for the taking.

And that is the most important thing.

Dad drones on beside me as I psych myself up for the flight. I don't really pay attention to what he's saying; I figure that if it's important, I would have read about it in one of my many theory of flight books, or at least encountered it in a simulator. Instead, I clean the lens of my aviator shades on the tail of my shirt, let my thoughts trail aimlessly.

"Scott," Dad's voice booms, breaking into my thoughts. "Are you listening to me?"

"Sure," I hedge, flipping out the collar on my flight jacket, rolling my eyes.

"What did I just say, then?" Dad challenges, crossing his arms in a defensive pose.

"You just said 'what did I just say, then?'," I laugh, words tumbling from my mouth before I can stop them. It is such a Gordon-answer, and I realise that I've been spending too much time with the lovable rogue if I'm learning to think like him. Dad is unimpressed with my response.

I grin easily. "Dad, this is not the first time I've flown. I will be fine."

Dad pats my cheek, clumsily, ruffles my hair like I'm little more than a two year old. "I know, I know. It's just that you're my son and I worry about you."

I peek outside the window. The sun casts an ambient glow over the tarmac. The orange air sock flutters gently in the slight breeze. There are few clouds in the sky. Couldn't have asked for better weather.

"Dad, I know everything I need to know. I promise to have a boring, uneventful, perfect flight."

I leave him and saunter out to my plane, pre-flight checklist in hand. The sunlight bounces off her white paint, making her seem years younger than she really is. I run a hand across her propeller blades, a mixture of a caress and making sure that the blades are smooth, checking that there's enough pressure in her tyres to withstand landing, ensuring that her centre of gravity is correct so I don't stall the engine and crash if the plane becomes unbalanced.

In the same way an equester would talk to their horse before a race, I talk to my plane before a flight. It's a strange notion, one many pilots can't understand, but talking to my plane makes me feel better. It's a way of establishing a connection with the plane, becoming one with how she moves and handles, making sure that she knows I'll look after her and ask her to look after me while we're up in the blue yonder.

External pre-flight checklist complete, I ease my way into the cockpit. I test rudder control, aileron range of motion, check that my flaps and spoilers work. I secure the headset I'm required to wear over my ears, open up a line between me and Air Traffic Control.

We exchange pleasantries and the guy on the other end of the line finally gives me take-off clearance. I taxi to the runway and take a moment to pause at the end. I reassess the situation.

I know I've worked hard over the past year and a half to get to this stage, but here is when the self-doubt rolls in.

Is this what I want? Once I'm up there, that's it. I'm on my own, encounter whatever comes my way.

There's a choice I face; take off and have one of the best times of my life, or abort and wonder what could have happened for the rest of my life.

It's no choice at all.

There is nothing quite like taking-off solo for the first time. There's this rush, a surge of adrenaline that flows through the bloodstream. The butterflies in my stomach transform into stampeding rhinos as the Cherokee hurtles down the runway. Vibrations from the plane tremble through me, and I pull back, slightly shaky, on the yoke.

And then there's this magic moment, where her wheels leave the ground, nose pitched at a perfect seven degree angle between the horizon and tarmac. We're airborne, floating higher and higher like a helium balloon, soaring majestically to the clouds.

That moment is pure.

It's rich and fulfilling, gold in liquid form.

As good as sex, if not better.

The wheels leave the ground and I know that this is what I have been waiting for my whole life. This is what has been missing all my life.

I've never been more in tune with my surroundings. I see the world for the first time, a chasm of activity below me.

I have come home. There is no other way of describing it, but I have found where I'm meant to be.

I'm not meant to remain grounded; I was born to fly.

I level off; disappear behind the white fluffiness of a cloud. The cloud enshrouds us, a wisp of cotton candy. It is only now that I wish I was in an open cabin plane so that I could reach out and feel the cloud, but I can't. Instead, I settle for what I imagine it feels like. Soft and fluffy, warm and safe, like a picnic in the park on a toasted teacake, fall day.

I stay up there for as long as I can. I dream about the barnstormer's life, free from all responsibility, flying where they will, no strings attached. I sail through the skies, an explorer mapping out my surroundings with an aerial view. I count the number of sheep in a farm 10000 feet below me.

I want to dance through sky, corkscrew, barrel roll, flip and turn, but I control the urge to do so with difficulty. I can just see Dad silently shriek in horror if I tried out aerial acrobatics on my first solo flight. I can hear the subsequent tongue lashing session, and that keeps me in check.

Eventually, I know I have to begin to descend. I lower the Cherokee, loathing the action, hating the way my ears pop as I return back to terra firma. I don't realise it at the time, but I push the yoke a little too far forward.

My speed increases incrementally, but by the time I realise it, I'm past the point of aborting the landing. Now, it's land or bust. I hope for the former.

"Scott, you will have to break very, very hard," the air traffic controller instructs, knowing the position I'm in is less than desirable.

"Roger," I grit out, bracing myself for a hard impact.

Instead of gliding in gracefully, the Cherokee and I crash and bounce our way onto the runway. Her wings shudder and jerk as she threatens to lift up again, but I clip her wings by raising her spoilers and applying the brakes. She squeals in protest, begins to throw a tantrum as she tries to rise again, but I won't stand for it. I'm the one flying her, not having her fly me.

By now, I can see smoke trailing behind us. I can smell and just about taste rotten eggs and sulphur that sneaks into the cabin from rubber burning against the tarmac. I can feel the heat of the friction between the two surfaces searing its way around my body, threatening to paralyse me with fear. I have never experienced a landing this bad, not even when flying commercially.

The air traffic controller's voice butts in again. "Make a hard right turn at the end of the runway if you're able to. If you are unable, take exit 101 off the highway, turn left at the traffic lights, obey the stop sign, navigate your way through the car park and make your way back to the airfield."

So I push down on the brakes even harder, hear the tyres struggle to grip the airstrip as she sways from left to right. I fiddle with the yoke as though it's a joystick I use to control a video game. I make her swaying more definitive; make the Cherokee snake her way to the end of the tarmac. I know that if I can increase the distance she has to travel, I can get her speed down to a more manageable level.

She shudders, violently, this time, and I offer an admission of guilt to her. "Sorry, baby, didn't mean to do this to you. Didn't mean to hurt you like this. Didn't mean to make you suffer."

And all at once, she accepts my apology. She doesn't slow down immediately, but she becomes more fluid, more willing to work with me than against me.

We come to an abrupt stop a few hundred feet before we run out of runway, thank God. I had no intention of overshooting the airstrip and landing up in the grass.

I take a breath before I taxi off, back onto the Delta offshoot.

"That was more fun than the rollercoaster at the state fair," I laugh shakily. "Can I do it again?"

"No!" comes Dad's order. "Young man, you get out of that aircraft and you'd better have a damn good explanation for what happened just now!"

I'll take the rollicking, mainly because I know I deserve it. Shouldn't have been so big-headed in the beginning. Shouldn't have guaranteed an uneventful flight. Shouldn't have made a promise I couldn't deliver.

But that's okay. I'll learn from it. Everyone makes mistakes, and I'll be the first one to admit that I made a pretty big one just now.

And someday, I'll have the perfect landing.

Perfect practice makes perfect, as they say, and I'm more than willing to put in the effort.

I'll get there one day.

I think I will.

No.

I know I will.