A slightly somber one-shot from Gordon's perspective.
I do not own the Thunderbirds, and I am making no profit from this story.
People call us selfless. I know I wasn't at first. In the beginning, I rescued people because it sounded like fun – exciting and action-packed…and the acclaim wasn't too objectionable either.
But over time, the faces began to get to me.
The teenage girl, sooty tears running down her face, the only survivor of a devastating house fire. She cursed us out, and told us she would rather die than be the only one left out of a family of six.
The elderly man we pulled from tornado wreckage. He was trapped for two days, but when we found him, he grasped my hand with unexpected strength, pale eyes shining with tears of thankfulness.
The mother, her scream rising above the rushing floodwaters as her daughter was snatched from her arms by the current – and the look of undying gratitude when I returned the little girl safely to her.
They all shared one thing: the expectation in their eyes when they saw my uniform.
Faces in pain, faces full of grief, faces full of joy…I saw a variety with every rescue, and they began to change me, to stir something deep within me. You might have thought that they would begin to matter less to me over time – that they would blur together, and that I would become callous. Well, maybe that happens to some people, but it had the opposite effect on me. I began to feel more deeply – to look at a random stranger and realize that he or she mattered to me, that I cared about them, and truly wanted to help them.
I blame it on Scott – and to a lesser extent, on my other older brothers. As a kid, I didn't know what it was called – I just knew that even if Scott had plans, and I needed something, he was there for me. I can't count the number of times that he set aside his projects or free time and gave me a ride to my swimming lessons, or helped me with my homework, or even just played with me in the back yard. Sure, once in a while, he would express some frustration, but ninety-nine percent of the time, he would just give me this easy grin and say, "You got it, Gords! Let's go!" He was the same way with my other brothers – it was as if each of us was his number one priority, and he was a distant second.
John and Virgil followed his example, and were far more patient with me and Alan than most brothers would be. They, too, were (almost) always glad to set aside what they were doing and help a brother out. I didn't know at the time that this was unusual; it was only as I got older and hung out with other kids in their homes that I saw how different my family was.
I know I still have a long ways to go. There have been countless times over the years that I have wanted to stop – just to get away from all the suffering, to go somewhere away from all the faces. They demand so much from me, and sometimes I just don't feel like giving it to them.
But then I think of Scott, setting aside his Algebra homework – with a soft sigh but a warm smile – as I come into his bedroom to tell him about swim practice. I picture John, tearing his eyes away from his telescope so he can help me learn my spelling words. I can see Virgil casting a longing glance toward his piano, even as he agrees to sit by the pool so I can swim.
Then I can give a little more. The victims may be strangers, but I know they have someone, somewhere who cares for them like Scott cares for me. And if they don't, well, for a few minutes at least, I'll be the one who cares about them.
People call us selfless. I only hope that someday I may be able to look into my heart and agree with them.