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Angelina

It's nearly midnight when the call comes through. I hear Jeff's hurried but relaxed footsteps in the hall, making his way to the lounge where I know the portrait of Alan will be flashing its eyes insistently. I wait a few moments before putting a robe over my nightgown. I hadn't been sleeping; I hadn't slept much at all lately.

I find I am the last to join the crowd in the lounge. Even my father is there before I arrive, and he slips past me to put a pot of coffee on in the kitchen.

"The fire in Brazil is still raging, father. The local fire department can't contain it, and their equipment is unable to cope with the blaze. I expect it to be a straightforward procedure. The outskirts of Sao Paolo have been evacuated, so there are no people directly in danger, but if we can help, we should," Alan says to Mr. Tracy, who is, as always, seated at his desk.

Alan is still in full uniform, unusual for him this late at night. I know his habits almost better than my own. He must have become engrossed in an online game of chess or the newest racecar magazine to not have changed into sweatpants, as his father has finally relaxed about the Thunderbird Five dress code. When in space, John and Alan can wear what they like after eleven at night. I still do not understand the reasoning behind the uniform when both men are disembodied voices to anyone outside the organization, but Mr. Tracy is strict with his rules when it comes to International Rescue.

Mr. Tracy nods as my father brings him a steaming mug of coffee, black, just the way he likes it. "Alright, Alan. Scott will get in touch when he is airborne to get the exact coordinates of the fire. He can brief Virgil on the best plan of action when he reaches Brazil." Mr. Tracy turns to Virgil as Scott disappears through the rotating wall. "Take the fire fighting equipment and an extra stock of Firefly's shells. Gordon, go load the pod and meet your brother in Thunderbird Two."

"FAB, father," Virgil and Gordon say in unison. They waste no time then, Gordon entering the hangar from the concealed door down the hall and Virgil tipping upside down to enter Thunderbird Two from the lounge.

I catch his eye briefly as the mechanisms in the wall start to whir, and then he is gone. The sickening dread that always fills my stomach returns immediately, though Alan has assured his father that it should be basic procedure. Virgil and Scott probably won't even have to leave their craft. Regardless, I worry about wayward winds, flames with a mind of their own...

Mr. Tracy will spend the next several hours at his desk, waiting for the safe return of his sons. I know his coffee is spiked, as it always is in these situations, and my father no longer asks if he wants the shot. It is as routine as Scott's liftoff in Thunderbird One. I linger in the lounge for a few more moments, hearing about the attempts of the local fire crews to extinguish the fire.

The ground trembles beneath my slippers as Thunderbird One launches from beneath the pool and Alan turns his attention to his eldest brother. Mr. Tracy will keep the connection open, listening to the transmissions from Scott, Virgil and Alan throughout, silently following every move they make and imagining it in his head. He only interjects when it is necessary, sitting at his desk nodding absently as he sips cup after cup of coffee. I watch him, wondering, as always, how he maintains his cool. I've never heard him lose it during a rescue.

I stay nearby for a while, listening to the transmissions until Virgil has arrived on scene and the boys have worked out a plan. Gordon would position himself in the upper compartment of Thunderbird Two and Virgil would open the roof so his younger brother could shoot the heat-activated shells from Firefly over the side. When the temperature reached a certain level, they would burst open and release streams of flame-retardant foam that could cover several square metres. Scott would set Thunderbird One down and explain their intent to the local firefighters, who were making failed attempts to extinguish the fire using helibuckets full of water from the nearby sea, while Virgil and Gordon flew above the smoldering trees, dropping shell after shell from the craft.

"Tin-Tin?" Mr. Tracy looks up at me as my father pours him another cup of coffee. "Would you please go and get John?"

I nod, knowing Scott will need his brother's impeccable language skills to communicate with the firefighters. John had been in the lounge a few hours before, but had almost immediately gone back to the Roundhouse, his quarantine of sorts, and back to bed.

He is not particularly happy when I rouse him from his heavy, cold-induced sleep, but he knows what is required of him, putting on a robe and following me back to the lounge.

"The transmission is open, John." Mr. Tracy explains to him what Virgil and Gordon have already started to do, and gives up his spot at his desk so his blond son can translate it into Portuguese.

"You there, Scott?" John seats himself at the desk, leaning towards the golden microphone in the corner.

"Reading you loud and clear, John. The fire chief is here with me, his name is Mr. Angra."

John took that as his cue, and in carefully pronounced Portuguese, he began to explain the plan to Mr. Angra over the radio.

The response comes back rapidly, and even John struggles to understand it in Mr. Angra's strong Mineiro accent. From his tone alone, I can tell he is very grateful for International Rescue's response.

"John?" Scott is on the radio again.

"I'm still here. How's it going?"

"The shells seem to be working. Virgil tells me Gordon has given up using the gun and is now chucking them over the side of Thunderbird Two so they land straight below them."

"Easier to aim that way, I suppose," John answers, smiling slightly as he conjures up the same mental image I have of Gordon throwing the football-shaped shells blindly out of the big green craft. From inside it, he won't be able to see over the top. The shells are heavy, but they aren't particularly big, the foam so tightly compressed within them that it doesn't require much space. It would take a lot of the little shells to put out a fire as big as the one they were fighting from the air just then.

"Gordon had three hundred shells on board and the fire brigade is still using their helibuckets to keep the fire from spreading. With our combined efforts and every single one of those shells, we should be able to get the fire down to a level where the helicopter pilots can put it out on their own if we can't extinguish it entirely," Scott says.

"FAB, Scott." Mr. Tracy returns to his desk and John stands, allowing his father to return to his seat of command behind it.

John excuses himself and returns to the Roundhouse to get a few more hours of sleep, still looking pale with sickness.

Hours later, I am awakened by the sound of Thunderbird One's return, the pool she hides beneath very near to my room on the bottom floor of the villa. Thunderbird Two will not be far behind as Scott always runs his craft at half-speed on the way home to fly side by side with Virgil and discuss the rescue. I have a feeling that tonight's conversation over the radio was probably not as congenial as it usually is.

From the footsteps I can hear in the kitchen above my room, I know Thunderbird Two has now returned and the boys are helping themselves to food and coffee before they debrief. Unless an unexpected problem arose, Mr. Tracy will keep it short as his sons have been awake all night.

Evidently, there were no complications, as I hear the footsteps dispersing in the hallway upstairs. Three sets of blue boots are heavy on the carpet, their heels solid and the toes made of steel. They are not the type of footwear one can creep about in.

I am not surprised when I hear the quiet knock on my door. I had heard a pair of those blue boots coming down the stairs to the floor that my father and I share with Brains' laboratory and Grandma's rooms.

"Come in," I call softly, sitting up in bed.

It is barely eight o'clock in the morning, and my sleep has been restless, but I do not look half as exhausted as Virgil when he opens the door. "I didn't wake you, did I?"

I shake my head. "No, not at all. Come in," I repeat as he is still standing in the doorway. Virgil hits the button and the door closes itself tightly behind him. "How did it go?"

"Fine. It's nice not to have to save people every once in a while." He smiles faintly, sitting on the edge of my bed. "We were able to get the fire under control and then the Sao Paolo fire department finished the job. Last I heard from Alan, the smoke is almost unbearable, but the fire has been extinguished and isn't a threat to the city anymore."

I return the small smile. "I'm glad. And Scott… was he okay with you while you were out?"

He nods. "Scott is nothing if not professional during rescues. He is the only one of us that doesn't let his emotions influence his decisions."

"Perhaps that is why he mans Mobile Control."

"Yes, that's why. The return flight, though… that was interesting." He shakes his head. "He didn't say anything about us, as I had Gordon with me, but he got more terse with every sentence."

"I was afraid of that." I knew what Scott was like. When he was angry, the entire island knew it, including every species of animal and bird that inhabited it. The fact that he had hid it for the duration of the rescue was even more of a credit to his professionalism.

"He completely ignored me during our debrief. I have a feeling I'll be getting an earful soon enough."

"I already have," I sigh, plucking at my quilt with my fingers absently.

He raises an eyebrow. "Before we left?"

I nod. "He cornered me in the hall. He's not exactly pleased with me."

"Don't worry about him, Tin-Tin. He's just overly protective of Alan because he's the youngest. But this has nothing to do with Scott." He puts his hand over mine. "It has everything to do with us."

"And Alan." My expression is grave as I think of him again, all alone in Thunderbird Five while his beloved Tin-Tin is falling for his brother behind his back.

He grimaces slightly. "Yes, and Alan." A sudden notion crosses his mind. "You are going to tell him about us, aren't you?"

"Of course. When Alan returns, I'll tell him."

That answer seems to satisfy him, and he rewards me with another small smile. "I'll be there if you want me to be."

I shake my head. "No, Virgil. This is my doing, and it is something I'll have to handle on my own."

"If you're sure."

I nod my head affirmatively. "I'm sure. With everything Alan and I have been through… I have to be the one to tell him." I knew Scott would personally make sure I did.

"We'll get through this, Tin-Tin." He leans over, hand still on mine, and kisses me reassuringly.

I sigh quietly as I return the kiss, wishing I could be as sure as he seems to be… about us, about everything.