Disclaimer: The Thunderbirds do not belong to me. They are the property of Gerry Anderson and his affiliates. No money is made from this. It is purely for enjoyment/ saving-me-from-insanity purposes.
AN: Not too sure where this one came from, and I'm not too sure if the narrator's voice was right. Also, the title is what I remember from learning the roots of words in the English language - mainly Latin - so it might be incorrect (there is a reason I'm heading into Science and Maths). Any thoughts would be nice on this.
Animalis Naturalis Habitat
A step taken back to observe the Tracys in their natural habitat
Normally, I don't venture into the living quarters immediately after the boys come back from a rescue. After the debrief, after they've scrubbed themselves up into a semi-respectable state, and sated their appetites – although that state never lasts for long – they still have excess energy, excess adrenaline they need to burn off. In the confines of the villa, sometimes it can be a hard thing to do, so I tend to give them the room they need to regain their equilibrium. Whoever's up on Thunderbird Five joins in the cooling off period too, via their portrait and a video link.
Instead, I perch on the balcony railing, hands gripping onto the wrought iron just a little bit tighter so I don't slip backwards and plummet onto the ground below, and I watch. It's calm and peaceful out here, almost the same as it is on the inside, but not quite there. I'll give them fifteen minutes before heading back inside.
Brains once equated my ritual to observing animals in a zoo, and in a way, I guess he is right. I stand on the outside, separated from them by a thin piece of Plexiglass and I observe them in their natural habitat.
Alan, in a way, is The Cheeky Baby Monkey. He's bright and intelligent, there's no questioning that, but half the time he doesn't seem to acknowledge that fact. Take the rescue three months ago as an example, where he defied a direct order from his Field Commander and almost became snack food for some alligators that had been injected with a steroidal growth hormone to make them freakishly large. Thankfully, events unfolded in a pleasing manner, meaning Alan is still with us, but this just exemplifies his ability to not use common sense. Like a baby monkey, he makes death defying leaps over metaphorical treetops and hopes to God that someone will be there to catch him when he falls. He's impetuous, evidenced by lips that are permanently super glued into a pout, childish, extremely jealous and possessive, and yet, I wouldn't have him any other way. There is still so much for him to learn, however, before he can mature and evolve into his next animal stage.
Gordon, lovable Gordon, would be The Labrador. In other words, he's bored when not stimulated. He's playful, amusing and just full of life. I imagine since his hydrofoil accident he's decided to live life to its fullest extent, viewing each day he has as a gift of a second chance. No day is fulfilled until he has successfully pulled a prank on his "starchy older brothers."
Err, those are his words, not mine.
True to Labrador form, Gordon is also sensitive, stubborn and exceedingly loyal. There is no one else I would go to if I need a joke to relieve some of the tension that infiltrates through the ranks, and there is no one else who gives the one armed hug quite as well as Gordon. Gordon is the brother I trust with secrets and deep-seeded fears no one else knows about.
Given his affinity towards all things water, I suppose one would expect me to compare him to some aquatic creature of some sort. But, no; The Labrador suits him just fine.
Virgil, being the third youngest – or third oldest, depending on your viewpoint – is next to be watched. Chestnut hair swept back and held in place with plenty of hair product, clean shaven and tawny skin glinting under the lighting of the room, Virgil possesses an aura of grace one wouldn't expect of a member of International Rescue.
Right now, he sits, perched on his stool, hands gliding easily over the keys of his grand piano. He projects practised ease, which only heightens the impression of his elegance. Virgil is the most intuitive of all the brothers. Subtext is his speciality; go to him with a problem, and he'll be able to suss out the root of your dilemma and offer a viable solution.
If there is one animal I would liken him to, it would be a swan. His elegance overpowers his practical side. Virgil, in a nutshell, is graceful, relaxed, seems to swim through life without a care in the world but his temper can be incredibly fierce. When he's enraged, he'll flap his wings, squawk loudly and attempt to beat you into submission until you view the world his way.
John, by contrast, is more feline. He's sassy, he's smart, he has attitude and he isn't afraid to show it. Like Virgil, he too can argue his point until the other person loses the debate and John's point is the only salient option left to take.
I guess I think of John as a cat because of his eyes. His eyes – not to mention his cheekbones – are the most striking feature on him. Bright, cornflower blue, a stark contrast to the pale blonde of his hair or his Nordic complexion. Much like a cat, his gaze can pierce right through your very being when he stares at you for the first time. It's somewhat disconcerting, being on the receiving end of The Gaze, but I've been told that many women worldwide would kill to have been in that position.
John can be skittish, though. There's an air of uncertainty surrounding him, as if he's not quite sure whether he should relish and enjoy physical contact people shower on him, or whether he should arch his back, jump a fair few feet in the air and stalk off to his cell of isolation, never to be disturbed.
Um, don't tell John this, but he is the most feline man I've met so far in my lifetime.
Lastly, that brings me to Scott. Everything about him screams Alpha Male. He's more rugged than Virgil, a little bit more rough around the edges – the stubble that's grown because he maintains the fact that he's too lazy to shave in the evening anyway only heighten this – more hardened and more of a force to be reckoned with. Despite the tough exterior, he's also the most in tune with how his brothers are faring. He can instantly pick up on when they're feeling down if a rescue wasn't successful or if they're hiding an injury, as the proud men of International Rescue are so prone to do. Not to mention how far or how fierce and menacing he can get when it's time to protect anyone he considers family; there are few lines he's unwilling to cross. In those instances, the world is black-or-white, right-or-wrong; there are no grey areas.
A product of having to leave his childhood behind and morph into an adult after the demise of his mother, I suppose. Responsibility became his middle name.
Scott, like John, is feline, but he is a more powerful feline than John is. With a thick mane of dark hair, and like John, cobalt blue eyes that freeze your insides when he shoots a glance at you, it's inevitable that he personifies The Lion.
Much like his animal counterpart, Scott will prowl around, late at night, keeping a watchful eye over his cubs. He will rip you to shreds and devour the meat off your bones if you even make a mere hint of a threat towards the people he cares about greatly. He is the leader of the herd amongst his brothers, and they obey his word as though it is law… most of the time. When they don't, though, it's inevitable that his dark side will show. As an innocent bystander when that happens, I can tell you that it's not a pretty sight.
A cool breeze winds its way around me, and I shiver slightly. It's been plenty of time, and the boys will be back to what passes for normal on Tracy Island. I gaze over them, one last time, before sliding off the balcony and re-joining the heroes of International Rescue, relaxing until they get called out again.