AN: 'Vox Populi' is Latin for 'the voice of the people,' and was once commonly used in legal proceedings. This is one possible (albeit disturbing) aftermath of the Thunderbirds Are Go! episode, "Impact." Out of character? Maybe. Or...maybe the Tracy family has had enough, and now it's personal.
GDF Prisoner Number 650415 shuffles along with the line of inmates, trays held above their heads as they walk toward the food distribution point. The sallow skin under the prisoner's eyes is smudged with the deep violet of fatigue, and the unkempt beard speaks of many weeks, if not months, of neglect in his usual grooming routine. His hair reaches to his worn collar, and there is dirt under his fingernails from the work detail outside.
Still, he muses, as he lowers his tray to receive a dripping scoopful of steaming slop, it isn't that bad, as prisons go. The food isn't gourmet by any means, but it's edible and regular, and the work is hard, which means he falls into his bunk at night and sleeps like the dead until the alarm blows for the morning shift. No time to think. No time to dream. No time to miss the world outside.
The prisoner shuffles to a nearby table and takes a seat next to the man in line before him. As he unwraps his single-serve, recyclable spork, the man at his elbow jostles him, making him drop the spork on the shiny concrete floor.
"Tough break, mate," snarks his neighbor. "Guess you'll 'ave to use yer 'ands."
This inspires a smatter of rude laughter around the table, until the guard glances their direction and everyone hunches back into their meals. 650415 picks up the spork and wipes it on the hem of his fairly clean uniform shirt, then stirs the unidentifiable mess and digs in. The flavor is vaguely reminiscent of chipped beef over rice, and he eats hungrily.
Ten minutes later, the room is beginning to blur, and he shakes his head to clear it. When he stands to put away his tray, he wobbles and nearly falls, but a guard catches his arm and propels him back into line.
"You okay?" asks the guard, more out of concern for prisoner welfare than personal interest.
"Yeah," the prisoner replies. "Just need to get some shut-eye."
By the time he gets to his cell, he can barely keep his eyes open, and he falls heavily onto his bunk. He is snoring before the bars close behind him.
He doesn't even wake when the fire alarm sounds an hour later, and the prison becomes a madhouse of shouts and curses and pounding boots. 650415 sleeps on, even as he is pulled from his narrow cot by a muscular guard, slung over the other man's shoulders, and quietly evacuated-not to the expansive, rain-swept courtyard with the rest of the prison's population, but to the silent, deserted infirmary, where he is left alone for a few minutes.
An ambulance pulls up to the infirmary door and disgorges a gurney. Without a word said between them, the dark-haired driver-who, oddly enough, wears the uniform of a prison guard-and his sandy-haired partner climb down from the bus, push the gurney inside and transfer the sleeping prisoner onto it from the bed. They are gone in moments, and GDF Prisoner 650415-otherwise known as Langstrom Fischler-slips away into the night.
When Fischler wakes up, he's drowning.
He's being pounded by freezing cold waves, over and over. Water fills his nose and mouth, and every time he takes a breath, he chokes and gags.
Just when he thinks he's going to die, there's a momentary lull in the onslaught of water, allowing him to draw a great wheezing gasp into his tortured lungs. This quickly leads to more choking and gagging, and the next cough brings up half-digested slop along with the water.
One more icy cold splash brings him fully around, and his eyes snap open. Not that there's much to see; wherever he is, it's dark, with only a single light overhead. What drops Fischler's jaw is the sight of a wiry man with salt and pepper hair standing before him, an empty five-gallon bucket clutched in his gloved hands. The man is also wearing a black leather jacket, dark jeans, and an expression of obscene delight.
"G'mawnin', gov!" he bellows in a pure Cockney drawl. He tosses away the bucket and claps his hands together as if to dust them off. "Rise and shine, y'bloody murderin' bastard!"
Despite his utter disorientation, it's at this last that Fischler feels obligated to mount a defense. "I've never killed anyone!" he croaks.
"That's true, but only just," snaps a woman's voice out of the darkness. Her accent is as cut-glass as the man's is cobblestone, and is accompanied by the click of stiletto heels against concrete. She steps into view, making Fischler gawp once more at the shine of harsh light against blonde hair pulled severely off her face. Her eyes are lakes of glacial blue, hard and cold and unforgiving, and she glowers at him, folding her arms over her black turtleneck sweater, "You've come within seconds of being held accountable for the slaughter of millions."
Another voice echoes out of the shadows; this time it's a youngish man, and although his voice is quiet, the words are like tolling doom. "Accidents happen. Disasters happen. They're the very reason our organization exists." A shadow moves at the edge of the pool of light, but the figure doesn't step into view just yet. "Some disasters happen on a cycle: Floods, hurricanes, cyclones, even wildfires and earthquakes." The newcomer pauses, as if giving a verbal shrug. "We take that into consideration. When a disaster is man-made, however, we keep our eyes out for what we call repeat offenders."
The voice is familiar, but Fischler can't quite place it through the ringing in his head. The man in the leather jacket is still looking far too pleased, and the chilly blonde arches a perfectly groomed eyebrow, like an angel sitting in judgement.
The man in the shadows finally steps into the circle of brilliance, and the light crawls up his body to reveal the face and form of Scott Tracy. The dark-haired young man is not in his customary blue uniform with its silver baldric bristling with gear; instead, he wears a tight-fitting suit of deepest black, with the sheen of woven carbon fiber glimmering from the taut surfaces of his well-built frame. His hands are encased in full-fingered black gloves, and there is no sound from his military-grade boots against the concrete. Above it all, his chiseled jaw is set and his eyes are ocean-deep under heavy dark brows. The air crackles with his unshed fury, and the cold isn't the only thing making the prisoner shudder.
"You hold a unique record in our organization, Mr. Fischler," Tracy ventures into the silence, his words echoing in the bare space. "We've responded to emergencies caused by you not once, not twice, but three times. If we charged for our services, you'd be in a hole to rival the Mariana Trench." He looks down his nose at the prisoner, as if he were a hawk sighting prey with sapphire eyes. "Do you have any idea what it costs to fuel our vehicles, Mr. Fischler? To configure our tech? To supply our members with their specialized equipment?" He shakes his head. "Be glad we don't send out itemized invoices-although if we had, you might have thought twice about cooking up any more of your little projects."
"I-" Fischler coughs and spits. The glob of noxious liquid lands at the razor-sharp toes of the blonde's boots, and she grimaces as she takes a half step back. "I was a researcher, a philanthropist! I was trying to make a meaningful contribution to society-you of all people should know that, Tracy!" His haggard face twists into an ugly sneer. "You and your damned boyscout brothers come swinging in with those fancy machines your daddy built for you-I built everything I had with my own two hands! I pulled myself up from nothing, so don't you dare lecture me, rich boy!"
Tracy steps closer and grabs Fischler by the collar, bringing them nearly nose to nose. "Let's talk about how your so-called philanthropy and research endangered the lives of Captain O'Bannon and the crew of Global One, the crew of CIRRUS, and almost wiped out half the planet with a comet strike!" He bares a set of perfect white teeth, and his biceps bulge against the creaking fabric. "Those were enough for the GDF to lock you up and throw away the key."
"Why do you care what the GDF does to me?" Fischler yells back. "You got what you wanted. Like you said, I'll never see the outside of a prison again."
Tracy twists his right fist deeper into Fischler's shirt and drags him to his feet. "Your little stunt with the comet almost killed three of my brothers. Now it's personal."
Fischler laughs in the young man's face. "You're in danger every day; you said so yourself. Just another day at the office for you."
The blonde and the older man share a glance, then step aside as another figure steps forward, joined by a second. Fischler recognizes their faces as two of Tracy's younger brothers, but their names escape him. One is dark and built like a brick wall, and the other resembles a blond wedge. Amber eyes gleam from both faces, and both are clad in the same skin-tight black from neck to boots. Both wear identical expressions of barely-checked menace, and as they come to stand on either side of their older brother, Fischler feels the blood drain from his face.
"Virgil," says the eldest calmly. The brick wall on legs takes two steps toward Fischler, and the former philanthropist's world goes white as a fist slams into the prisoner's solar plexus.
"That's for my little brother," grits Virgil. He rears back again and plows into Fischler's belly a second time. "And that's for John." He steps back, panting, and stands beside the eldest once again.
The measured voice echoes in the room once more. "Gordon."
"Knock knock," spits the blond, and Fischler sees a quick glimpse of a black glove before it connects with the socket of his right eye. Hot pain explodes over his cheekbone and eyebrow, and when the glove is pulled back, it bears the dark glitter of fresh blood.
"Your ladyship," says Tracy, turning to the diminutive woman. "Do you have anything you'd care to say to Mr. Fischler?"
"Only this," she replies, and leans in to address the bloodied prisoner. "You're about to wish that all you had to deal with was life imprisonment," she purrs. "I'm afraid my friend here isn't as gentle as Virgil and Gordon are."
Tracy shoots the older man a glance. "Parker?"
The older man in turn looks toward the blonde. "Milady?"
She fixes Fischler with a cold blue stare. "Beat the shit out of him, Parker."
Parker pops his knuckles. "With pleasure, milady."
That night, a limp and bloodied form is brought through a disused entrance and dropped like a sack of potatoes onto his bunk. The prison sleeps on-but with the morning light, the warden is summoned by a shocked guard to the cell of 650415.
The prisoner is nursing the worst black eye the warden has ever seen, and there is dried blood from the inch-long gash on his forehead. As for the rest of him, he looks for all the world like he's been used as a football by a herd of stampeding elephants or been beaten by a particularly vicious thug. Eventually, it is decided that Fischler had been asleep when the alarm went off, had jumped up in a panic, and had been trampled by his fellow prisoners attempting to gain the exit.
Later that afternoon, the three Tracy brothers, one Cockney safecracker, and one high-born English lady take tea at the lady's sprawling house.
None of the brothers or their friends will be losing any sleep tonight.
-End-