Disclaimer: The Thunderbirds do not belong to me. They are the property of Gerry Anderson and his affiliates. No money is made from this story. Any unrecognized characters belong to my imagination, which hopefully belongs to me.
AN: just a set of shots from each brother's POV that was just screaming "write me!" after drama camp. Set pre-Thunderbirds. Enjoy!
Alan
My hands fly around the steering column and my foot hits the brakes lightly. The tyres of my car squeal on the tarmac like someone's being tortured and a billow of thick dense smoke is visible in my rear view mirror.
Touch of understeer there. No matter. I'm still in the lead. I can win this.
I quickly glance in my wing mirrors. The car in second place creeps closer and closer to me, morphing from an insignificant speck of dust to an overgrown, oversized inconvenience.
Oh no you don't. I've been in first since lap thirty. And I'm going to come first on lap forty three. This is my win. I've worked for it. My blue ribbon. My gold.
Subconsciously, I give the steering wheel a little jerk, blocking the car tailing me.
Take that!
Another quick check in the mirror. The imbecile was still on my tail.
Red and yellow. Nice colour scheme for the paintwork.
I shook my head slightly. I'm in the last ten metres of this race, neck and neck with my opponent, and all I can think of is his paint job?
Get your head back in the game, Alan. You're nearly there. It's between him and me. No one else. Just him and me.
Five more metres left.
Three…
Two…
One…
The chequered flag swipes down just off to the side of the track, and the last of adrenaline rushes through my body.
I can hear cheering. It sounds hollow through my crash helmet, but I know how much enthusiasm is in those cheers.
I let my beast of a car glide round the track, slowing down to come to a stop, and my headset crackles into life.
"Congratulations Alan," my service team told me. "Your first win! And hopefully, it's not going to be your last."