A continuation of a collection of short stories that may be a mix of TOS and TAG 2015, and maybe some movie-verse too. It's largely meant to be humorous, but there will almost certainly be some whumping here and there.

I do not own the Thunderbirds, and I am making no profit from this story.

Virgil watched lazily from a lounger by the pool as Gordon's pace began to slow – he had been swimming his laps, and it was apparently time for him to cool down. The laps got slower and slower and finally stopped completely. Gordon turned over to float on his back for a few minutes before climbing up the steps and dropping down on a lounger next to Virgil, looking spent but happy.

They sat in silence for a little while before Gordon turned his head. "I heard you told John the shark story," he said. "And you've been fishing for stories from Scott and John too. What are you gonna do – write a book?"

"Nah – I was just curious," Virgil said. He glanced over at Gordon, his expression speculative. "You know, as hard as I find it to believe, I guess you're a big brother too. You got any gray hair stories?"

Gordon grinned. "I thought you'd never ask! So it was during me and Alan's last vacation together…"

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Chapter Four

Gordon clung to the edges of his seat, glad he was wearing a racing harness and a helmet. The vehicle skidded to a halt, and he turned to face his idiotically grinning little brother.

"She's fast, all right," he had to admit. He held up a stopwatch.

Alan glanced at the numbers and shrugged. "She'd be faster if I jettisoned the excess weight."

Gordon frowned. "She's bare bones already. What do you mean – oh. I get it." He sighed and began unbuckling his harness. "Jettisoning excess weight now." He stepped from the vehicle.

Alan grinned at him. "You'll have a better view if you go stand on that little ridge over there," he suggested.

Gordon looked to see where Alan was pointing and sighed again. "First you call me excess weight, and then you tell me to take a hike?"

"Hey, you get to pick what we do tomorrow," Alan reminded him.

Gordon perked up at that – he was thinking maybe water skiing. With that to look forward to, he had a smile on his face as he trotted over to the little rise that would give him a good view of the race course.

Reaching the top, he looked down and gave Alan a thumbs up. Alan whipped around in a tight U-turn and drove up to the start line.

Gordon could barely keep from shaking his head as he looked down at the little car – it was fast, but it was sure ugly. A far cry from the sleek race cars his brother normally preferred, this one was a rally car, meant for down and dirty racing.

Alan was watching him, waiting for the signal to start. Holding the stopwatch in one hand, Gordon raised the other high over his head. Alan revved his engine. Gordon grinned as he kept his hand up, enjoying making his brother wait.

The engine revved again, its tone somehow managing to convey Alan's impatience. Gordon finally dropped his arm, and Alan took off like a shot, sending a spray of dirt flying behind the car.

Alan hadn't actually raced the car yet; he'd been practicing techniques on a dirt track he had made on some rugged property their father owned out in the desert of New Mexico. The mile-long track wound up, down and around on just a few acres, making for an intense experience.

As Gordon watched his brother's car slide sideways around a hairpin turn and fly briefly into the air as it hit a bump, he wondered if Alan had told any of the rest of the family about this new hobby. He somehow doubted that Scott would be thrilled.

Alan passed by the finish line, skidding to a halt, and Gordon glanced down at the stopwatch. His eyebrows raised – okay, so maybe Alan had been right about him being excess weight.

Alan's voice crackled over the wrist comm. "How was that?"

"Much better," Gordon told him, reading the time off the stopwatch.

"Oh, I know I can beat that," Alan said, whipping around and positioning the car back behind the line.

Gordon sighed and tried to imagine himself skiing along the surface of a gloriously cool lake instead of standing on a dusty knoll in the middle of the desert. He raised his arm, readied the stopwatch, and lowered his arm.

Alan's car hurtled forward again, taking the curves, dips and rises even faster than before, and with considerably more control than the first couple laps. As much as he'd rather be swimming, Gordon couldn't help but admire his little brother's skill.

And then, in an instant, everything fell completely apart.

Gordon, with his sharp eyes, caught a little flicker of movement on the track a bit ahead of Alan's car. He identified it as a jackrabbit, and dismissed it quickly from his mind, knowing that either it would move, or there would be one less jackrabbit in the world. It was too bad, but there was nothing he could do about it.

However, whether Alan saw the movement and thought it was something bigger, or whether he knew it was a rabbit but had suddenly become squeamish about running it over, the consequence was the same: he swerved sharply to avoid the jackrabbit, and hit a little hummock on the side of the track.

Gordon shouted Alan's name involuntarily as he watched the car flip over, land on its roof, and go rolling and careening down the hillside, finally sliding to a halt in an upright position against a boulder.

Gordon was halfway to the car, stumbling over the uneven terrain, before he even realized he'd moved. A million things flashed through his mind as he pounded across the hot, sandy track – should he call his older brothers to the rescue? No, better wait to see what kind of shape Alan is in. How would he get Alan to the hospital by himself? They were in the middle of nowhere, and their ride was now a crumpled heap. Maybe I'd better call Scott… But even if Scott pushed One's engines to the max, it'd still take him a while to arrive, and Virgil would take even longer.

And then he was skidding down the hillside and slamming up against the smashed car. "Alan!" he called hoarsely. He grabbed the door handle and pulled hard – at the same time that it was pushed open from the inside. He landed hard on his rear and stared in astonishment as Alan popped out of the driver's seat, boiling mad.

"Stupid rabbit!" Alan shouted. "Look what it did to my car! This is going to take forever to pound out!" He stalked around the car and kicked at the boulder. Coming back around to the front of the car, he suddenly noticed Gordon. "Hey, how'd you get down here?" He frowned. "And what's with you? You don't look too good, Gordy – you're not getting sunstroke or something, are you?"

For once in his life, Gordon found himself absolutely speechless. He gaped at his brother, mouth open, but with no words coming out. The only thing his mind could come up with was that he was glad that he hadn't called Scott after all.

He pushed himself slowly up to his feet, trying to ignore the way his knees wobbled. He looked Alan in the eye and told him, "Dude, next time, just hit the rabbit, okay?"

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"So how did you get back to the hotel?" Virgil asked. He shuddered slightly – he'd never heard this story before. Having seen the results of far too many horrific accidents, it was easy to visualize what could have happened.

"Well, believe it or not, we drove that little rally car," Gordon said ruefully. "It started right back up. I had to climb in from the driver's side because my door was so badly smashed, but other than that, it just had a few dents. Alan was mad because I wouldn't let him practice any more that day."

They both jumped at a voice from behind them. "You bet I was mad," Alan said. "The car was fine – and I was too!"

Alan walked into their view, wearing swim shorts and sunglasses and carrying a bottle of water. He grinned and flopped onto a nearby lounger. "But, hey, with all these stories you guys have been telling, don't forget that it goes both ways – there have been tons of times when one of you older brothers scared one of us younger brothers by doing something crazy! Right, Gordy?"

"Absolutely," Gordon replied. "You guys like to act like you're all that and a bag of chips, but sometimes it's a younger brother who's the sensible one, and the older one who's causing the gray hairs."

"Hmm, I see your point," Virgil said thoughtfully. "Take Scott, for instance. This one time…"