A/N: Hi all. Yeah, I know, still stuck on this fic. Kent Tracy has well and truly gotten comfortable in my brain.

I am still working on my other two WIPs, around Uni and work, but I hope that now I've got this chapter up, I'll be left alone to do the others! Dratted OCs never know when to quit! :D

Thanks for all the brilliant reviews, I really appreciate them, considering how different this 'verse is proving to be. It's really heartening to know that everyone is so open to this, considering how there are so many other OC fics out there.

I've had a query as to why I've named our dear protagonist the way I have, and it's because I didn't think Donald or Deke Slayton Tracy sounded right when I visualised his character in my head. Kent is Deke Slayton's middle name, and as his fellow Mercury Seven Astronauts, Malcolm Carpenter and Leroy Cooper both went by their second names, it's not entirely all that out of left-field, especially when it comes to how our Scott and Gordon were named by Jeff.

I also have to give my sincerest apologies to my dear friend, LexietFive, because I went and forgot to acknowledge all the assistance she's been giving me with the development of this story! The majority of the reason why this fic is coming together so well is due to all the help she's given me these past few months. When I posted An Evening Photograph last June, Lexie showed massive interest, and through all the discussions the two of us have had, I've been able to form this story. She continually has new questions and suggestions for me, and I have to say that Kent would never have made it to the page like this if not for her. My hugs hun!

Some more tidbits and plot development here as we move into the story a little more. Probably raises more questions than it solves as well, but enjoy the new chapter everyone!

Disclaimer: If not for Gerry and Sylvia Anderson, I would not be able to play in this wonderful playground, so no; I do not own the Thunderbirds.

Kent

Now that little detail's been settled, Dad snaps into decision-mode.

"Alright. Scott, you and Kent are in 'One. Get going and contact Brains for coordinates and updated data… Virgil; you, John, Gordon and Alan are in 'Two. You'll need the Mole and the Domo, most likely..."

As Dad goes on explaining and directing, I'm admittedly rather surprised to hear that I'm co-piloting for Scott. That particular assignment usually goes to John when he's dirt-side, but I mentally shrug my shoulders and follow my oldest brother anyway.

Due to his preoccupation with the others, I think I've gotten away with escaping from Dad's inevitable question, but then I have to resist the urge to roll my eyes as I step into my elevator, nodding in affirmation just the same.

I might be twenty-one years old, and should well and truly be able to tell if I'm fit for duty, but the fact that Dad still asks me if I'm alright to go on a rescue, even after all this time and with all the measures set in place, is a testament to the fact that I'm still one of his sons, and he worries; about all of us.

Pressing the coded keypad on the inside of the elevator door so it can close and power up, I see Alan finally sprint into the room, and then watch Gordon lift a hand from one of his crutches to grab his shoulder, preventing him from falling over from breathlessness.

I grin, and nod again to Dad in understanding, before the capsule beeps to warn me of the imminent drop. I raise my eyes and brace myself as I feel the mechanism release, before I lose my breakfast.

I'd mentioned before that I've been ill recently, and that was why two of my older brothers had been eyeing me so closely when I walked in. It's not an unreasonable reaction, considering.

Having undergone three major surgeries within the first thirty-six months of my life, and then looking forward to having to be on medications for the rest of it certainly complicated things when I was growing up. The added fact that I couldn't play any sort of sport like my siblings, and could never go a single winter without being ill with something, sort of made me the main focus for smother-henning, at least up until Gordon had his accident.

I'm just thankful that I'm able to do what I do, and to the extent that I can.

The whirring sound that the capsule emits when in operation has slowed now, and I lower my eyes from the focus point on the ceiling, and push away from the contemplation of my health situation, to key open the door and move along the corridor that leads to Thunderbird One's silo.

Each of our elevators are set on different levels that lead to each hangar; the lasered-smooth passages that lead deep into the extinct volcano are lit with solar-powered lights and comm-pads every fifty feet to aid in an emergency. One's hangar is set more towards the side of Laharu's base, due to the proximity to the swimming pool launch-pad, so there's less of a walk for Scott and his co-pilot than there is for the occupants of 'Two, who have to trek more towards the left and interior of the island mountain to get to their destination.

Just before the tunnel splits off towards the access run that leads to the lower levels of the silo system, I duck into the supply closet to fetch the duffel that contains all the paraphernalia I need for each rescue.

I open the bag as I break into a swift jog to the doors of a second elevator, double-checking that the most important part of my equipment is still there on the way up, before keying in the entry code that allows me to step inside the supersonic 'Bird.

Scott, having gone across the access gantry from the level directly below his elevator, is both in the cockpit and dressed in his uniform when I arrive; beginning to key in the setting for the pre-launch sequence before calling in for the follow-up information from Brains.

I glance at my brother in incredulity as I move down the back of the small room, so I can get changed myself; amazed and simultaneously annoyed that he's gotten dressed so quickly, despite the fact that it's SOP that it gets done as quickly as possible.

Damn having to go to that supply closet anyway. I still need to ask Dad for a better method of getting my gear, but I'm always bloody tired after a rescue, and keep forgetting. Perhaps having Brains make a duplicate might be a better idea…

Scott has obviously read what's going through my head, or at least the first part, because his voice is amused and smart-alecky as I pull the door to the tiny locker room closed and start stripping down to my shorts. I'm trying to pull my boots on at the same time, which makes both tasks difficult.

This is a job and a half when you're in a hurry…

"I might have longer legs and a shorter distance to go than you, KT," my brother calls back, a grin evident in his voice, even over the friendly chirping of the console. "…but you need to get a fire under your ass. Opening your mouth about detours isn't gonna help your case either! Even Al could run faster than you!"

"Oh, yeah?" I snark gleefully back. "I'd beat you any day in a race, Old Man!"

Whoops. I look down at my midriff and realise that I've picked my discarded exercise wear off the ground, but gone and forgotten the vest that goes beneath the uniform jumpsuit. Double damn.

"Fine. You, me and the beach, at five tomorrow. Then we'll see who's slower than Alan!"" Scott says, and I can hear him seating himself in the pilot seat, the gimbals creaking slightly as his weight settles.

Time to hurry up then.

Dropping my clothes on the floor again, I hurriedly unzip the heavy flight suit, before shrugging the shoulders down to pull on the reasonably light-weight, Kevlar-like vest.

I'm still trying to do up the heavy runner again, even as I'm sprinting out of the tiny cubicle to get to my seat so Scott can launch. I've forgotten to move my clothes into my locker, again, but I have closed the door so there's no danger of anyone getting hit by sweaty, flying projectiles.

"You're on." I tell him, finally getting the zip done up, and my hair pushed out of my eyes. "We'll see who's the best out of you and me, Big Brother."

His knee and my already-rubbing, blasted itchy sunburn notwithstanding.

Pulling the wireless earpiece from the small compartment in front of the co-pilot's seat, I push it into and around the shell of my right ear, before seating myself in the chair and fastening the full-torso restraints, the comfortable memory-foam-esque padding moulding instantly to my body.

He nods absently as the chirruping turns into an almighty hum, growing louder as the conveyor system gets to the end of the task of moving Thunderbird One beneath the swimming pool. Scott codes in the activation protocol for the detection shields, before calling in to Command and Control.

"Thunderbird One to Base, requesting clearance for launch."

Dad's voice comes immediately over the link; clear, strong and authoritative.

"Permission granted, 'One. 'Two will be right behind you. Good luck boys, and Godspeed."

Without any further ado more than Scott flipping off the comm-switch, an earth shaking, teeth-rattling roar starts up beneath us as Thunderbird One's engines fire into life. The alarm that signals the pool sliding back comes through the speaker to wail faintly in our ears, and I clench my jaw at the way it sets my teeth on edge. Even after all this time it still drives me mad.

Sunlight floods the silo and the cockpit; the windshield darkening automatically against the glare. My hands dance over the familiar console as I activate the blast-covers over the 'shield, and then time just seems to stand still for one, exhilarating split-second, before the reconnaissance 'Bird takes off.

I close my eyes in elation, even as I'm pushed back into the seat; my heart fluttering in my chest faster than the wings of a bird. My hands tremble as they're pressed into my lap, and my breath catches in my chest as the g forces take hold for the short period it takes us to reach fifty thousand feet.

The pressure eases off, and even though I feel perfectly fine as my eyes and fingers come to rest on my console again, I see Scott still eyeing my out of the corner of my eye.

Incorrigible, my oldest brother, and neurotic too…This happens all the time.

"I'm good Scott." I sigh a little resignedly. "Don't stress. You know that Dad wouldn't let me come if he even slightly doubted that Brains' creation works properly."

My brother's mouth twitches into a wry smile, but he lets the matter drop.

He knows I'm right, but I don't really blame him for worrying. He behaves this way every time I ride in 'One, and I've just learned to go with the flow, rather than make an issue out of it. It's only a response born out of being the older brother, and I understand completely, what with Gordon and his issues.

Dad wouldn't have even considered allowing me to be a part of IR if not for Brains' assurance and my father's own confidence in our scientist-cum-doctor-cum-engineer's abilities.

It's thanks to Brains that I'm able to be an operative at all.

My father was initially extremely forceful in his decision to not even think about offering me the chance to be an active operative, back when we were still in the planning stage. His original intention for me was to man the desk while he and my brothers went out to rescues, but then Brains —without even having to be asked, bless him— proposed the idea of the electromagnetically-shielded, charged vest to us both, and he began to seriously consider the idea. I was elated, for even though I had not ever expected to be able to fully take part in International Rescue like my brothers, I had still wished and dreamed anyway, for things to be different.

Initially designed for my brothers and father to wear beneath our uniforms to shield against injury in the field, Brains adapted one especially to prevent my heart muscle from giving out if I'm put under too much stress.

It's not a cure-all for the condition I have, at all; as suppressing and controlling the electric pulses in my thrice-repaired heart could potentially cause damage if I wear it for more than ten hours at a time, but it's enough that I can do the job I've undertaken properly. It puts out spikes of low-level electricity to counteract any change in chemicals in my blood, and stops my heart from tipping me into one of my episodes of weak dizziness and fainting. As of yet, nothing has ever occurred on a mission for my father to withdraw his permission, although there are days where I have to step back and stay at Base when my brothers get called out. Those occasions are far from being a fun experience.

My father and I were both very much in agreement on that particular point when he and I sat down to discuss my involvement in the organisation, after the presentation of that then-tentative proposition. It was the same sort of conversation that I'd had later on with Gordon, and he with Dad, when it became clear that my younger brother was never going to fully recover from his injuries.

I'm not a fully active team member because of my illness; the marvellous invention doesn't allow me to be able to take tours of duty on board 'Five or ride crew for Thunderbird Three either, but it's given me enough freedom that I'm allowed to man Command and Control, and even 'Two, or one of the auxiliary vehicles when Virgil and Scott are needed elsewhere on rescues. But despite all of that, my ability to participate to the extent I do is more than I would have ever had if I didn't have that spectacular bit of Brains' ingenuity. It's really just amazing what that guy comes up with, and that's a grand understatement!

The panel beneath my fingers beeps to alert me that Scott has levelled us out to horizontal flight. I look at the route tracer in the corner of my view-screen, and I see that we're streaking high above the north coast of Western Australia. We'll be in Japan within another thirteen point three minutes, according to the system's calculations.

While I've been musing, Scott has called up to Thunderbird Five, and I can see the face of Brains' young son; thirteen-year-old Fermat, explaining the situation to my oldest brother, while I can see Brains on the left-hand side of the screen clearly running scans of some description. He's calling figures in his stuttered voice over to Fermat, who is in turn relaying them to us, between site updates.

Realising that they're our coordinates for the disaster zone, I swiftly key in the long, alphanumeric protocol that approves them as logical data, even as Scott types in the clustered points themselves.

A beeping comes from the earpiece I'm wearing, along with the familiar voice of a brother, and I pull the attached microphone around to my mouth while keying in the code to accept the connection.

"Reading you strength five, 'Two." I reply. "What's your ETA?"

"Behind you by 50.43 minutes, Thunderbird One." My twin replies crisply, no sign of the annoyance he'd felt with me earlier evident in his voice. "ETA to the danger zone is 60.12 minutes from… Mark."

"FAB, Thunderbird Two" I affirm, just as professional as I watch Scott close off the link to the station. "See you at the Danger Zone."

"FAB, Thunderbird One." Virgil says, and there is an audible click as the line between the two crafts disconnect.

"Virgil is about five by ten minutes behind us, Scott," I tell my brother, as he allows Thunderbird One to make the change over to autopilot, freeing him to consider the logistics and related 'politics' pertaining to the rescue, as I consider the maps and blueprints. "So, what am I going to get you to do as my month-long slave when I win our race, Scotty-boy?" I grin. "Something like… I dunno. Clean my room? I got lots of dirty laundry, ya know…" I let him think that's what he'll be doing, but I know better…

We're on a job, but not yet at the danger zone, so I can still act like a dork if I feel like it. I see it as my duty of sorts, to keep Big Brother from getting too uptight and stressed, as he always has a tendency to do when we're on call.

Judging by the half-smirk I get as I wait for him to finish what he's considering, it's working.

I keep my eyes on my screen as I wait for his answer; my brain raising the mostly-flat displays into a holographic projection that whirls around in my vision in bright, pastel colour. Much like Virgil, I have a creative disposition, but while my twin's 'sight' includes sound, print and colour bouncing off the surface of the air when he absorbs it, mine only relates to the type and structure of something either written, printed, or painted. It gives me the ability to alter images in my brain to see around and through them, just like they've been built right in front of me.

Drives me mad on occasion, and makes me right bad tempered because of it too.

While I've got the aesthetic and visual perspective that comes with the possession of Synaesthesia, I don't have any ability with mathematics or scientific numeration to go with it, so I'm in all actuality missing half the pieces to the puzzle, needing someone else to interpret the technical parts of what I'm seeing.

At least Thunderbird One's software isn't so advanced that it doesn't expect me to instantly understand how we get from A to B, as half the time my job at Mobile Control involves plotting out the courses to get my brothers to where the victims are.

I scan the topographical and surface interior scans of the area affected by the quake, provided by the images taken from Brains not long ago. Through the superficial details like the depth and the stability markers to denote the composition and thickness of the terrain, I can see that there is something else there that is more alarming than the possibility of aftershocks and additional quakes.

Something much more worrying…

Alarm rises in my throat at what I just might be seeing here, and I swallow wetly, both trying to push it down, and moisten my mouth so I can speak.

"Uh, Scott…" I interrupt my brother in his reply as I lean in closer to the map; brushing the touch-screen with the pad of my finger to zoom in on the areas I've so quickly spotted. We might have ourselves a bit of a problem…"

A/N: So that's that. Please let me know any of you spot errors at all, whether it be in technical, spelling/grammar or even 'isms', because I will learn from no mistakes if I'm not first told of them! Thanks all for reading, and I hope that you stick with me, because things are going to get a little more interesting for our boys…

-Pyre. Xx