Disclaimer: I don't own the Thunderbirds and make no money off this small and pretentious little fic.
Warnings: Very mild bad language, nothing especially graphic. There are some adult themes in this fic – prejudice and hatred, a little bit of political stuff, and the supernatural, so while not especially offensive in any way, it might be a bit complex for the very young.
Authors Notes: Well, I've hit second part, and a big and warm thank you to my reviewers who gave me enough enthusiasm to keep going. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
All right, I've got a bit of exposition to get through, so bear with me. This chapter is mostly an explanatory one – fleshing out the AU and beginning of the main plotlines. Not much action, but I've tried to make it as engaging as I can. For those of you who asked about the boys abilities, they are more fully explained in this chapter.
Regarding the psychic powers, I've made up the names for Jeff's and Virgil's powers – they are not scientific terms, simply because I couldn't find an equivalent and I wanted to make Jeff's, Scott's and Virgil's abilities distinct, even though they are pretty similar.
In answer to Virgil's Grl's question, when I looked up 'clairvoyance' I found that the academic view of the word is actually a blanket term for a whole mess of ESP categories – precognition, channelling (as in the dead), intuition, and many others. I found terms like 'clairsentience' and 'clairaudience' that may have been more accurate but, as scientific as they are, they just sounded like cobbled together words to me, and I wasn't sure anyone else would know them. I just stuck with the old favourite that most people would know of, hoping they would understand what I meant.
Oh, and the 'chapter summary' under the chapter title was a style I saw in Terry Pratchett's Going Postal (an author which I highly recommend), and I thought: that's really neat, I'll try that. Just in case, I don't own it or make money off it either.
Please read and review – I always like to know what you think, even if you hate it.
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Part II – It's All in the Family
In which there is – Jeff Tracy's Metal Dreams – A Phone Call – An Attack is Announced – All in the Family - the Engaging Mr Fenill – Enemies – the Papered Gate – the Laws of Physics – Virgil's Anger – Pizza! – Punishment – Alan's Vision – Gordon's Honesty
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Jeff Tracy was still in his office when his mobile shrilled at him. He was glad of the distraction to wake him up. He was reading through the budgeting reports coming in from the various departments and as important a task as it was, his thoughts kept skittering away, drifting on the creators clouds.
In his mind, metal shells were wrapped around dreams, half formed shapes flew across the landscape of his engineering prowess. It was the new design for the TNDR17 engine that got him going – its efficient use of fuel and incredible thrust made it a fantastically powerful engine destined for use on shuttles for Tracy Corp's network of satellites.
A new engine designed for space flight. But in Jeff's mind, he wasn't seeing rockets. There was something else, something bigger and grander poking at his right lobe. He just needed to clear away the clutter and let the full vision take shape…
At times like this he would usually drag himself back to more mundane concerns – after all, he was no longer a young and brilliant engineer running half wild on the creative curve, trying to keep up with ideas that flew thick and fast. He was the head of a multinational company, which was a long succession of fairly tedious routines to maintain the momentum. He couldn't afford and didn't have the time anymore to give free rein to his creativity And then there were his sons, Jeff smiled, his beautiful, brilliant boys who were showing, as they grew everyday, their creative, ever expanding intelligence and talents. Both Scott and John were at the top of their fields in university, and scholarships were lining up for Virgil. Gordon's athletic talent was putting him on the fast track to the next Olympics, and Alan, despite a few haywire experiments, was already showing the aptitude for spatial physics and rocketry that made his father such a successful astronaut (coupled with a worrying love of speed).
Other things in his life had long since had priority for his attention. Maybe when they went on the family vacation and his sons could run wild and leave him to have a much needed break he could allow himself to dwell on the half formed visions.
Speaking of attention, his eyebrows rose slightly at the ID name on the LED display, and suddenly he felt rueful. Here it comes, he thought wryly. His sons would get months of amusement off that silly tribute. "Hey Scotty," Jeff answered, trying to sound more jovial than he felt in the face of oncoming barbs. "Did the boys have fun?"
"Dad, have you been watching the news?"
The strained, stressed edge in his eldest son's voice suddenly put metal dreams and budgeting straight out of Jeff's mind. His focus was suddenly razor sharp. "What? What happened? Is everyone okay?" his tone was clipped and military, but damp with worry.
"It's not us," Scott assured him from the other end. "You'd better take a look."
"Hang on," Jeff clicked a switch on his desk and a rich wood panel slid back silently to reveal his office view screen. He groped for the remote in his desk drawer.
The White House was flashing on the screen, and neon bright headlines gathered around it and the muted anchorman, his lips moving urgently and fervently. Jeff felt a sinking, cold knot form in his chest and tear down to his stomach as the words 'Terror Attack' and 'President Injured, Several Staff Dead' and especially 'Psychic's Suspected' registered. He turned up the volume, and it was no improvement.
'…not entirely clear on the events that occurred after the group killed the agents at the outer security checkpoint, but we have information coming in that at least four people inside the Oval Office were apparent fatalities, and the President herself was taken to St Agnes of Bells Hospital, the extent of her injuries unknown. Reports are still pouring in from witnesses, several of whom allege unexplained fires and moving objects through the halls, as well as what has been called a 'mass manipulation' resulting in a mob hysteria throughout the White House. Sources within the White House refuse to substantiate any rumours concerning the attack, but a military presence has appeared within the streets of Washington, and a press release given just ten minutes ago from the White House Press Liason has confirmed that the Chiefs of Staff are on alert and are calling an emergency meeting. Experts are being cal…"
Jeff muted the sound again, breathing hard. The phone was dangling from a limp arm. He bought it up sharply again. "Scott, where are you?" he demanded sharply.
"We're in the SUV," Scott reassured quickly. Jeff breathed out, relieved. Scott added "We got out of the museum about ten minutes ago. Alan had a vision."
Jeff cursed mentally. Alan's visions were an endless source of trauma, not just for Alan. "Is he okay?" In his minds eye he saw his tall, dark haired eldest turning in his seat for an instant to look over his blue eyed, baby faced youngest.
"He's okay. Slight headache, no shakes, no mood swings. He didn't see anything nice, though," Scott reported dutifully.
Jeff pinched the bridge of his nose. It could have been worse. "Straight home, Scott, no detours," he ordered. "Don't fuss about dinner; I'll pick something up when I leave here. I'll be home in about…" he did a rough estimate. "An hour and a half or so. I have to cancel my afternoon meeting and re-book some appointments before I can leave. Secure the house and don't answer the door or the phone." He suddenly realised that he was talking to his son like a green corporal. "I guess this kind of spoiled the day, huh?"
A soft, exasperated sigh met his rhetorical question. "The honest answer to that Dad," Scott replied heavily. "Would be 'among other things'."
Jeff blinked, nonplussed. "Something happened at the museum." It wasn't a question.
"Yeah, kind of," Scott said uneasily.
"Tell me at home," Jeff decided to let him off the hook. "Call if anything happens, right? Anything," he repeated sternly.
"You got it Dad," Scott replied. "See you later."
"Okay. Be safe." And Jeff heard the dial tone.
He shook his head. The national crisis was bad enough, but he was willing to bet whatever happened at the museum concerned one or both of his youngest. Virgil and Scott both had tempers, but they both had discipline enough to keep it in check. John's anger was a rare thing indeed, and he was far too tranquil to cause a scene in public. But Gordon and Alan…
Jeff sighed. He had to be fair to his youngest sons, they were young. It meant they could be impulsive and sometimes even reckless, but Jeff knew that they were good kids. The worst they had ever done were some juvenile pranks, one minor (and admittedly unintentional) lab explosion and some daydreaming in class. Their hearts were always in the right place, and they were bright enough and focused enough to put the effort in when they had to. But there were those times they showed that full maturity had yet to take a complete hold on them yet, and that's where everything went wrong.
Normally, all this would mean was a few bad decisions made, leading to maybe a bad situation, property damage, crashing the family car, or something. They weren't nice things, but they were manageable, usually the end result would be an important lesson, if nothing else.
But when your second youngest could make fire with his head and let it out through his hands or wherever he wanted, and his youngest could both sense and turn the dials on peoples emotions and reactions, which could cause anything from mass hysteria and insane rage to joyful bliss, things got complicated. Not just because their amazingly potent abilities made them so potentially dangerous, but that other people knew this and watched endlessly, judging and weighing each action and event in their lives.
There wasn't as lot of margin for error in all that.
Jeff sat back at his desk and put in a call to his secretary to send a 'cancel meeting' memo and asked her to send in his chiefs of departments. He had a feeling he'd have to be ready to take a few days leave at short notice at any time in the future when the maelstrom he sensed coming finally hit. Best to lay the groundwork for that now, since for all he knew it would be tomorrow.
He sat at his desk, cleared it of paper and leaned back, hands steepled in front of him, eyes distant. Almost automatically he reached into a desk drawer and picked up a tinkling handful of old coppers and silvers – old tarnished coins like the detritus of a piggy bank. He cast them on the desk, and they bounced and rolled across the surface. But when the time to be still should have came and passed, the coins still moved – sliding and shifting across the desk, flowing into odd shapes and patterns. It was something Jeff did to keep the outer edges of his mind occupied will he pondered.
His eyes flickered to a picture of his beautiful wife – the last he had ever taken, his sons gathered around her, little Alan in her arms. She had been a psychic too – telepathic empathy, and both Alan and John had taken after her natural intuitiveness. And then there was him, the strange kinetic and long winded gift known as metallurgiopathy – which was no great hardship for him. The ability to bend, distort, find and move anything metal was of great assistance to an engineer, especially one with no money for expensive tools when he was starting out. He'd gotten a medal in the Air Force for minutely changing the shape of a wingman's jet wings and thereby preventing his fatal crash. Of such tiny things is heroism made.
From Jeff and Lucille - his wife's - great love and regard for one another had come, in order, one telekinetic (Scotty had definitely taken after him, but his ability to move things had a wider scope – temper tantrums in the younger years took on a whole new meaning, Jeff remembered well); one telepathic (John used to have to be sedated just to sleep, the mental babble of thoughts like loud white noise. It had spurred their first long stay at the isolated Kansas farm where Jeff grew up); one patropath (a family trait for telekinesis gone sideways, making a rare gift for creating something solid out of electrified magnetised atoms and particles in the atmosphere. His mechanically minded Virgil could forge a path across water and build walls out of air, among other things); one pyrokinetic (groans all round when they had discovered that little trait – fireproofing little Gordon's room cost a mint, and he couldn't even remember how much stuff had been burnt teaching Gordon control); and one empathic clairvoyant (like his mother, Alan hadn't fit neatly into a category, having both emotion control and all three 'cognitions', pre, post and present. Jeff rather suspected the clairvoyance was a recessive trait inherited from Jeff's mother's side).
Of course these were just labels for the dominant traits, a way of categorising. All psychics had a little clairvoyance, a little extra perception and sensitivity with which to feel and see the world and its dead in slightly different ways and colours. That's what people feared so much, especially in the powerful ones – you could never really know, even with the most comprehensive testing to date, the scope of a person's spiritual abilities. Even the weakest of psychics could be a danger to a person's most private and intimate facets – that's why the heavy controls had come down; the coded tags, the official ID's and (and this one made Jeff's knuckles go white) the 'points' system to become official citizens and the humiliating biyearly reviews.
It hadn't always been this way – only in the last decade had the real policing of the psychics began. It angered Jeff to no end the atmosphere of fear that his sons, particularly his two youngest, had to deal with every day. Jeff wanted better for them.
An attack like this? The fear would increase tenfold. There must be a way to make it better…
The buzzer cut through his meditation. His secretary's worried voice emerged.
"Mr Tracy?" Mrs Collen wavered uncertainly. "There's a Mr Fenill here to see you."
Fenill, Fenill…didn't ring a bell. "I'm seeing no one today except my department heads Mrs Collen," he stated firmly.
"I know, sir," the elderly but capable assistant replied. "But he insists and says he's…hey you can't…!"
The wooden doors came open and in came a young man, not much older than Scott. Dark haired and tall, he was quite handsome in an angular sort of way. He had an engaging expression, a dark suit, shiny shoes and a discreet stud in one ear.
His expression faltered slightly as he watched the coins come to rest on the polished mahogany desk, but it quickly reasserted itself. Jeff's eyes narrowed slightly – that didn't bode well. He waved back Mrs Collen, who had come after the young man, and she nodded and discretely shut the door.
"Major Tracy?" the engaging Mr Fenill asked.
Jeff raised an eyebrow. Who else were you expecting, Mr Fenill? "It's 'mister'," he corrected calmly but stiffly. "I haven't been a major for over a decade now."
"Sorry sir," the young man ruefully rubbed the back of his head. "I've found sometimes ex soldiers like keeping the titles." He gave a slightly nervous chuckle. His manner was boyish and his suit slightly askew.
Jeff merely sat back and looked at the young man over the steeple of his fingers for a few moments longer than comfort allowed, which always disconcerted his sons and certainly seemed to be working on Mr Fenill. "Was there any particular reason you felt the need to barge into my office, Mr Fenill, or do you make a habit of such an invasion?"
"Uh…yes, sir. I mean no, sir," Mr Fenill stuttered, and Jeff managed to convey how very patiently he was waiting with a mere shift in posture. "It was very important I spoke to you, sir."
Jeff said nothing. He would add no prompts to the conversation; give the man no clue to his thoughts.
"Uh, actually…I'm from the Psychic Regulatory Agency," here Mr Fenill flashed a warrant card and badge. There was an awkward pause, but Mr Fenill was learning he was getting no help from the other half of the conversation. "And since this attack on the White House this afternoon we've pulled every agent on to double duty to check on registered psychics, make sure they need no extra protection, counselling, anything like that. I understand two of your sons," here Jeff's eyes narrowed in a chilly way "have high-sensitivity gifts that may require assistance…"
Alright, this little charade had gone on long enough. "My sons and I," Jeff cut in coldly. "No longer have any dealings with the PRA, aside from what is required by law. I have no desire to do otherwise, Mr Fenill."
"Sir, I really urge you to reconsider," Mr Fenill said fervently. "People are getting very antsy about gifted people following this tragedy and…"
"Shoes," Jeff cut in abruptly.
Rendered unbalanced by this non sequiter, Mr Fenill gaped. "What?"
"Shoes," Jeff repeated flatly. "Most people look at faces, Mr Fenill, but I'm more interested in foundations, so I look at shoes. Yours are buffed to a mirror. It's now almost evening, and I have to ask myself what kind of man buffs his shoes after a long day full of crises. The sort of thing a rookie would do to impress whomever he was going to meet, maybe. But then I noticed the worn belt leather, the second gun you carry, the fact you're wearing a lot more metal than regulations allow in your job. Metal tie pin, metal bracelet, metal buckles, metal buttons. Too much metal Mr Fenill. To put me at ease? Let me know that I can pick you up and toss you across the room if I wish? Or to conceal something that should be metal?"
"I…Mr Tracy…?" the young Mr Fenill seemed completely taken aback, but Jeff was watching his eyes.
"You don't move like a rookie." Abruptly Mr Fenill was dragged forward, pulled by a magnet, where Jeff could get him by the lapels. Jeff tilted his head to the side of Mr Fenill's, and bought his face closer to Mr Fenill's ear stud.
"Clever," he said eventually. "Very clever, Henry," he appeared to be speaking into the stud of the stunned and immobilised Mr Fenill. "I mean, all the metal to conceal the stud, which was plastic to hide the currents into the camera and microphone. But you couldn't keep metal out of the wiring, could you?" he peeked around the edge of Mr Fenill's ear, where the flesh toned wire ran nearly invisible to the eye. "And then there was young Mr Fenill. That was good, trying to engender my sympathy by making him out to be an inexperienced rookie, even down to the mis-tied tie and the nervously buffed shoes. And making him look like my son," Jeff's smile was acid and predatory. "That was artful. You should have made him change his belt though; the wear marks from the ID clip are distinctive. The only PRA's who wear ID clips on a daily basis are the higher ups – the powerful, classified agents." Mr Fenill was suddenly very still. "Good grief, Henry," Jeff shook his head, cold rage and disbelief in his tone. "You must think I'm stupid! As if I wouldn't know the inner workings of your agency well enough to spot the signs. And as if," he bared his teeth "you would send a rookie to see Jeff Tracy, high on your Agency's hot list? I told you four years ago," Jeff said to the unseen people at the other end of the camera in a tone of such cutting steel that Mr Fenill flinched. "that the PRA had no more right to my family's lives. Seek to undo this and I. Will. Bury. You. I will shake the world to see you fall. Is that clear!"
He let Mr Fenill go, and the man sprang lithely out of range. There was nothing uncertain about his movements now.
"I'd advise you to reconsider your position, Mr Tracy," the newly formed Mr Fenill said coldly. Clearly he did not like being caught out. "The world is changing."
"I'd advise you stay well out of my affairs, Mr Fenill," Jeff replied equitably. "I'm not given to mercy, particularly when my family is involved. You get one warning, then you get to see if you can best me. Consider this experience your warning, Mr Fenill."
Security arrived at the door, called by Jeff's silent alarm which he'd pressed halfway into the meeting. They were all good, solid, well trained men, loyal to their company.
"Escort Mr Fenill out, please," Jeff ordered imperiously for Mr Fenill's sake. "And I'll have to talk to you about new security measures when you get back, Randall."
"Yes sir!" the bear-like man called Randall snapped off a precise salute. The man was ex-military, and had hit bad times out of the army until his friend Jeff had tracked him down and had found him a place to put his skills and not inconsiderable talents to good use. He was fiercely loyal to Jeff and his family, and considered himself their bodyguard.
Mr Fenill was taken away.
Jeff sat back at his desk, disconsolately pushing around a coin with one finger. They certainly didn't let grass grow under their feet, did they? he mused bitterly.
Suddenly he got to his feet. Screw the departmental chiefs, screw the preparations. He needed to see his sons.
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The man known as Mr Fenill was forcibly ejected from the building, and he could feel eyes watching him as he moved away through the plaza and across the street. He briefly glanced up at the top of the massive skyscraper and his lips tightened, vexed.
He got into the dark car parked on the rapidly darkening street. The building behind him was a black spire against magnificent ochre, reds and purples of the fading sun. They pulled away, and Mr Fenill turned to face the other occupant of the car, who was called 'Henry', among other names.
"I see Jeff's mind is still as sharp as it ever was," Henry said. The driver and the other man in the passenger seat nodded.
"He saw right through me," Mr Fenill muttered irritably. "You might have said he had some clairvoyance."
"Hah! He has no such thing! He's just used to the politics of the game, that's all. He knows how people think, which can be far more useful than actually divining thought."
"What shall we do?" Mr Fenill asked.
Henry responded with a shrug. "If he won't submit voluntarily what else can we do? The man has had us tied up in legal knots for years now. I'll say this much for him, he knows how to do whatever he does thoroughly. There's no binding way to catch him, not as long as he toes the line. He too powerful a man!" Henry threw up his arms.
"How did that happen, anyway?"
Henry shrugged. "Some talents are difficult to play down. We couldn't hold him back, not with the commendations from the Air Force and their personnel's support behind him." Henry sat in the quietly moving car, lost in thought. "Yes, I think we're going to have to rearrange matters to suit. Put our second option into play, will you?"
"Yes sir. Do you really think they were involved?" Mr Fenill asked.
"That, Mr Fenill," Henry said, giving him a look. "Doesn't matter in the slightest."
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The black SUV pulled into a quiet, stately, tree-lined street, headlights cutting through the darkness. Night had fallen, and the streets were deserted.
Almost deserted. Scott's eyes narrowed as he watched a scruffy and capped figure nailing things to the high wood gate and stone wall of their simple, stone and wood panelled two storey house. He cursed.
The others all looked up to see what had gotten his attention. Virgil was sitting in the passenger seat, the other three were in the back, hovering over Alan, who was still pale and constantly rubbing his temples.
"Oh you've gotta be kidding me!" Gordon snarled.
"Alright, everyone relax," John replied as the car pulled up to the driveway. "I think we've enough stress and violence for one day."
The figure turned and ran as the headlights hit him, leaving a bundle of white paper sheets behind him. Scott unstrapped himself and moved to follow, but Virgil was quicker.
"I'll go," he said as he jumped from the passenger's side and shot after the sprinting figure, nodding at Scott's 'be careful'.
The scrawny, rumpled figure had a good head start, but Virgil was a fast runner and he had a pretty cool skill which had ensured his younger brothers never got very far when they had run away from him in their childhood.
Ahead of the figure a rippling haze appeared, and he smacked into it hard, spending him sprawling backwards.
Virgil groaned and staggered as heavy pressure was slammed on his brain, making his ears ring. He still had enough momentum to catch up to the downed sprinter, however. He shook his head, trying to clear the aching dizziness as he lunged for the dazed but still trying to escape figure.
Any high school physics teacher could tell you the fundamental rules of the universe – for every action, an equal and opposite reaction. This means something thrown with certain force will fly to the limit of that force. Something hits something else and whatever it hits will feel the same exact impact. Just because you're psychic doesn't mean you get out of physics. The fact that the reaction occurred inside their heads, stirring up brain and body chemistry, rattling bones and brain matter, causing irregular functions, didn't mean it wasn't a reaction. A psychic wasn't an omni-cognizant, untouchable force. They were a mine field of physical, emotional, mental and physiological problems bought on when they used their gifts.
More paper fell out of the guys hands as Virgil hauled him upright, and the words 'Innocent Citizens Beware! Espers Live Here! Your Thoughts Are No Longer Yours! Inform the Authorities! You Need Not LIVE IN FEAR!' flashed before the middle Tracy's eyes.
"What the hell do you think your doing?" Virgil growled right in the guy's face. He catalogued it for future reference. Skinny, slightly weedy, pointed chin, lank, dirty blonde hair, dull grey eyes and a malicious expression. He was just a face, one that Virgil had seen before. You saw these kinds of faces around, usually at the back of a protest rally or in one of those 'privacy protection' groups that littered the cities. They weren't the front men, the poster children, the leaders of the pack – they were the followers, the 'yes' men, the mob; unoriginal and unimaginative, but vicious and malicious, experts on bullying and mindless prejudice and sustained low-grade paranoia.
"I've got you!" the guy yelled. "I've got you now you stinkin' espie! That was an unwarranted use of psychic power! I got you for attempted murder!"
"Unwarranted?" Virgil snapped back. Then he took a deep breath, eyes slightly unfocused. "Act Three, Sub Section One on the Miles-Keye Amendment states that a psychic may use their gifts in defence of their own lives or in defence of another's, or in order to prevent a crime in progress. These," he thrust the dirty white pages in the guy's face. "Constitute slander, trespass and a breach of privacy with intent to cause harm – which is a jailable offence." The hate-monger gaped at him from in between lank strands of hair. Virgil gave him a thin, tight lipped smile. "Don't talk to me about the laws, I know them chapter and verse!"
The man squirmed in Virgil's uncompromising grip, spidery hands trying to prise Virgil's off his shirt. "Don't matter. They won't charge me with anything on the word of you freaks. People have a right to know what they're living next to! They have a right to be safe!"
"So do we!" Virgil hissed, enraged by then man's unthinking racism. His anger welled up nauseatingly. "Listen buddy, I've had a long day! I just got home from half a dozen security checks. I'm tired, I'm hungry, my brothers are worried and upset and at the end of all that we still have to deal with an idiotic jerk like you! And you have the gall to stand there after vandalising our home with this filth and act like we're the criminals! Maybe I should have gone in for murder! Removing crap like you from the gene pool could be considered a national service!"
Blood had splattered across the lanky mans disgusted face, and Virgil realised his sinuses must have been rattled by what he had done, blood free flowing from his nose and across his mouth. He must have looked completely insane, judging by the sudden look of fear on the rodent-like visage in front of him. He thrust the man aside and down onto the pavement. "Get the hell out of here! I've seen your face and I'm sure my brothers will have taken photos, and like it or not we can have you arrested and sued! If I ever see you anywhere near this place or my family again you will regret it until your dying day. There's no limit of perfectly legal ways we can tear you down." Virgil's voice was stony.
"Showing your true colours there, psycho!"
Virgil moved toward him so abruptly that the man back-pedalled along the pavement on his behind. "Psycho. Like crazy, right? You really wanna see how far I'll let you push it? You really want to find out just what we could do to you if we weren't nice, law abiding, decent people? I'm not surprised you didn't notice that, you've probably never met one in your life, certainly not in the mirror. You want to?"
The man flinched at the look on Virgil's face and hurriedly scrambled up and away from the enraged young man. The sound of his running feet echoed like an end note to a musical score, fading with the climax of emotion.
Breathing hard, Virgil took a look at his shaking hands, and then down at the white papers resting quietly on the ground. Of all the…his thoughts trailed off, angry and bewildered. Virgil understood machines, he understood music, he understood art. His deeply complex mind was able to deconstruct the most intricate of mechanisms, sift through the meanings of the most multifaceted artworks and the composition of the most involved musical scores. But he didn't understand the all encompassing hatred people carried through their lives, and that always upset him deeply.
Huffing resignedly, he bent and retrieved the papers from the ground – no need to leave garbage messing up the street. He crumpled the pages in his fists and trod gloomily back down the street. He'd better get home before Scott came looking.
Just as he pulled up to the familiar wooden gates, a set of headlights illuminated them. Virgil tensed until he noticed the sleek lines of his father's blue Porsche past the high beams, and the familiar TRACY2 number plate.
The flashy car pulled up right next to Virgil and the door opened. "Virgil?" Jeff Tracy emerged from the dark of the car. Suddenly the lights mounted on the gate posts were turned on, illuminating the driveway and the car in a pool of light. "Virgil, your face! What happened?" Jeff Tracy was quickly in front of his middle son, checking the damage.
"It's okay Dad," Virgil assured him as Jeff gently checked him over and sponged the blood away with his own handkerchief. "I barriered some idiot who was hanging that privacy junkie rubbish on our front gate. Guess I should've just tripped him."
"Guess you should have," his father agreed, raising an eyebrow in mild remonstrance. Jeff didn't approve of using their gifts at all, except where unavoidable. He looked the gate.
Virgil did too. It was free of paper and tape – though scraps littered the ground here and there. Virgil grinned – that was big brother Scott in action. He'd probably torn them all down in one go. "He won't be back, Dad – I told him he'd get arrested."
Jeff waved him off. "Next time just let him go – they always get worse when you tell them things like that. They see it as some sort of challenge." He snorted over the flyers he'd taken from Virgil's hands when he'd finished with the face. "Same old, same old. How's the head?"
"Aching," Virgil admitted, and Jeff shrugged in a 'well, that'll learn you' kind of way.
"Come on," Jeff put an arm around Virgil's shoulders and steered him towards the car. "I'll give you a ride to the porch, and you can help carry in the stuff."
Curious, Virgil looked at the back seat. He grinned eagerly, headache nearly forgotten in the face of adolescent starvation. "Cool, pizza!"
Jeff smiled.
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It was ten minutes later, and Gordon and Alan were lined up before Jeff in his home study, staring at the carpet. Jeff was rubbing his forehead, and Scott had positioned himself well off to the side, perched on the armrest of the room's leather couch.
"I don't believe this," Jeff said in disbelief. "How many times have I told you about using your gifts in public? How much could I possibly have to drill it into to you?"
"But…"
"Gordon, no excuses!" Jeff interrupted sharply. "Boys, look at me!"
Reluctantly, both of them did. Like Scott, Jeff's disappointment was what hit them, not his anger. That was the intention.
"Do I really have to tell you how stupid and immature you acted? Now? After what happened today in Washington? Do you really not see the kind of damage you did, the kind of danger your put yourself in?"
"No one remembered, though. I made them uncertain and John…" Alan tried.
"John can't steal memories, Alan – and the fact that you would rely on it if he did is nothing to be proud of, or grateful for." Jeff's voice made Alan flinch again, and take a step back. "This cannot happen. In other countries you could be stoned or shot or hanged for what you did today. Do you really think America is that far ahead? It's not, trust me. They'll keep you alive, and they'll use you, hurt you, and then throw you aside. You had dumb luck on your side this time, you won't have it again. And if you really get caught, there may not be much I can do for you – remember that. A crime is a crime, no matter the reasons. There are no excuses you can give me that would make it different." Jeff sat back and let his youngest stew over that for a minute or two. "I raised you both," he continued. "And I know you have the ability to make better choices than this. That makes it all the more absurd. And wrong." Jeff stood, looking over at his stoop shouldered sons. Scott was in the corner, trying not to fidget. It was odd, but while Jeff was certain Scott had ripped them a new one at the museum, now when it came time for them to be punished his protective instinct suddenly emerged. Jeff wasn't a fool – he knew how hurt his sons were by such disappointment and resignation in his tone but they had to learn, and they had to learn fast – the PRA didn't grant second chances, and losing any one of his sons to them was one of Jeff's greatest nightmares. "Both of you are grounded for the next week – and believe me, considering the fact that you'd be in jail now if you'd been caught, that is a gift. You're on wood-chopping duty," groans from his sons, "and when I say grounded and mean the whole thing. No sports, no solar car club, no swim team, no video games, tv, phones, or friends. You do chores before school, you go to school, you come home, do your homework, and then you chop wood for the wood shed until its time to come in. And I expect your room to be spotless, understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"Yes, sir."
"Good," Jeff finished sternly. "Perhaps the lack of distractions will help you reflect on actions and help you with future choices." He gave them one more stern look, just to drive the message home.
Sighing, he rubbed his eyes. "Scott said you had one of your flashes at the museum, Alan."
The atmosphere relaxed slightly. "Yes sir," Alan looked back up at his Dad.
"Do you remember what you saw, exactly?" Jeff questioned gently. He knew he had to be careful – Alan's visions could give grown men nightmares.
"Well…" Alan paused to organise his thoughts. "There was the White House – I didn't actually see it but I knew that's where it was. And lots of people screaming, lots of people, really scared…and there was…" Alan's blue eyes were slightly unfocused. "Gunfire…and blood, and I think their names were Henry…or Hank, or Harry….and Natalie or Natasha, and Cyril – his was clear because he hated it…and…Red…Red, I think, and another one Chai or Tai, and she's dying…and," Alan bit his lip. "And everyone was screaming and there were these words across the walls 'Free Psychics', 'Free Psychics' and…" his eyes narrowed. "And…then everything swung around, and I was seeing different things – crowds of people with fire…and army guys everywhere and they were all hunting, looking for something…and…and a train." Alan finished. He was rubbing his temples again – the headache had come back.
Jeff had come around his desk to stand before his son, and he gently reached out to ruffle the blonde locks. "It's okay Alan," he soothed. "That's enough." He hated it when his son witnessed people dying.
Scott had come closer too. "A train?" he mused, almost to himself. "Why a train?"
"I didn't actually see it," Alan clarified. "I heard it in the background. I don't know what kind of train it was, I just heard the sound of it, all the time." Alan sounded frustrated. "There were other things, I think, but they slipped by."
"Never mind," Jeff replied. He gave his son a playful noogie. "It's never a complete picture, we all know that. How's your head?"
"Better now," Alan smiled tentatively, and Jeff smiled back.
"Good. Go get some dinner before it gets cold, all of you," was Jeff's advice.
Jeff turned to straighten his desk as his sons moved out of the room, and blinked when he realised one had come back. He turned to face his red headed fire maker.
"You know I don't compromise on punishments, Gordon," he said quietly. He knew the lack of swim team practice would be a hardship for his son – for one thing, the schools coach was a bit of a fanatic and wouldn't let him get away with it, so Gordon would have to give up his lunchtimes as well - but Jeff wouldn't be moved.
"It's not that," Gordon shook his head. "About the museum…I know it was a stupid thing to do. I knew it then too. But when that guy knocked Alan down and everyone just let him do it…I just reacted. I know it was wrong, but I'm still not sorry. No one looks out for us, not even the guys who make the rules. We have to take care of ourselves."
Jeff sighed. "You'll notice I never asked for an apology, Gordon. I don't need you to be sorry. I do need you to understand that there are consequences for every action, even things which seem righteous and worthwhile. The world isn't going to give you the benefit of the doubt, son. Not you. It is unfair, I know, but there you are. You're going to have to live with it, just like all the rest of us." He gave his son a slight, wry smile, and got a ghost of one back. "Go on, get something to eat, I know what your appetite's like. And Gordon?" he called after Gordon as the teenager headed for the door, and watched the boy turn. "I do appreciate your honesty."
"Right, Dad."
And then he was gone.
Jeff took a moment to breathe. Hard bits done, crisis averted. He was a little angry with his sons, but not all that much. It was already fading away. Partly because this kind of thing rarely happened and could be much worse than it was, but mostly because Gordon made an unfortunately valid point – they lived in a world where psychics were punished severely for tiny slips, but were never ever rewarded for playing by the rules. The life of a registered psychic was one comparable to a fugitive or a paedophile – always watched, never trusted, never given a chance. In the face of such injustice it was hard work trying to teach his sons that breaking the rules was a bad thing to do.
They didn't do to badly, all things considered.
Suddenly Jeff sat up straight. He'd left his sons – his growing teenage and young adult boys - alone in the dining room with access to all the food he'd bought home….
"Boys!" He yelled with a sudden urgency. "There had better be some Italian Chicken left!"
He was not encouraged by the "Uh-oh, you're in trouble now Scott!"
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End Part II
