Disclaimer: The Thunderbirds do not belong to me. They are the property of Gerry Anderson and his affiliates. The original characters come from my imagination, and have appeared in some of my other works. I am pretty sure that my imagination belongs to me, unless it runs wild and becomes a law unto itself.

AN: This chapter has some brief references to OCs (and a separate story, but that's getting off topic.) Hopefully the references are brief enough for it to be read easily if you're reading this as a 'stand-alone', but definitely enough for it to be tied into the skewed Thunderbirds universe that's been forming over my years on this site. Hope you enjoy.

Chapter Four

Eight years later

The tropical air breezed through the opened balcony doors. The sun shone brightly in the sky. There was not a cloud in sight. It promised to be a beautiful day on Tracy Island.

From inside the flat that his family had just moved into – the newly built compound meant that he, his wife and two (but in a fortnight, it would be three) kids weren't squeezed into a suite that was designed for only one person – Scott strolled into the kitchen.

Well, he attempted to stroll into his kitchen, but he was tackled by two pint-sized projectiles.

"Daddy!" they yelled in tandem, each one grabbing onto his jean leg. "Pancakes!"

Squatting down to the height of his two children, he placed a finger over his lips. "Not so loud! I'm not deaf yet, and your Mommy isn't feeling great today. Just tone it down, okay?"

Chastised, the three year old girl and two year old boy nodded.

"So, pancakes." Scott hoisted both his kids into his arms and set them down on a kitchen bench. "Who's gonna help me, huh?"

"I will, Daddy!" Melissa yelled excitedly, swinging her legs wildly.

"Mel, what did I just say about loud voices?"

The girl's lip wibbled slightly and her eyes became downcast. Upsetting her beloved Daddy was not something she liked to do.

Seeing that his eldest was in desperate need of reassurance, Scott wrapped her up in a quick hug, pressing a kiss to her forehead before doing the same to his two year old son.

"Luke, banana pancakes?" Scott's head swivelled towards Melissa. "Or should we make Nutella pancakes instead?"

"You're not feeding our kids Nutella for breakfast, Scott." A pregnant pause, which was appropriate since it was his wife who was berating him. "What're you three up to, anyway?"

"We cook, Mommy," Luke stated, nodding his head decisively.

Whatever reaction Scott was hoping for, it wasn't having his wife lean against the doorframe while she laughed.

"I'm sorry, but did you guys say that you were cooking? This I must see!"

Insulted, Scott crossed his arms over his chest. "Tash, do Gordon and I really have to set fire to another kitchen to prove to you that I can cook?"

"No, setting fire to one kitchen was quite enough. Carry on."

Halfway through Scott making the batch, Gordon bounded into the apartment, a white envelope waving like a flag in his hand.

"Mail call, Scotty!" The red head prankster swapped the letter for a plate piled with maple syruped goodness.

"Gordon, that was my kids' breakfast you stole!" Scott cried, outraged.

"I brought you your mail; I'll consider these sublime pancakes payment for my services."

"If International Rescue goes belly-up, keep that attitude in mind, because then you could be a gigolo," Scott said, sliding a finger under the envelope flap. "There's a career path if you enjoy payment-for-services-rendered. Of course, being a gigolo would require you to be able to find a woman, and by that I mean one who has a discernible pulse."

Quirking his eyebrows, cheeky smile etched into his face, Gordon leaned on the bench top. "You seem to know a lot about this, Scotty."

Ignoring the jibe, since he had started it, Scott opened the letter and began to scan read it.

"Gordon, do me a favour."

A shift in tone, more subdued, stunned almost.

"Sure."

"Go get Virgil. And John. They need to read this as well."


"What are we going to do, Scott?"

It was late in the afternoon, and the three oldest Tracy sons had gathered in Thunderbird Two's hangar, just to minimise the chance of being overheard.

"I don't know, Virg."

"Can I read the letter again?"

"Knock yourself out, John." Scott pushed the piece of paper towards John.

Rubbing his eyes, John began to read. Zoe McKenna, now eight years young, had managed to discover the names of her rescuers, and discover their public address – not the one for Tracy Island – in the public domain. Now, with the support of her adoptive parents, she wanted to meet up with them and learn about the day that irrevocably changed her life.

"I reckon we should go," Scott said, leaning against the bulk of Thunderbird Two.

"Dad'll burst a blood vessel when he realises that all three of us'll need shore leave for this."

Two pairs of blue eyes regarded Virgil.

"Don't you ever wonder what happens to the people we rescue, Virg?"

"Sure I do, John."

"Well, don't you think it would be worthwhile to see what's happened with Zoe? She was one of the first people we saved."

A moment of silence.

"Virgil, at the end of the day, it comes down to this. You say yes, and you get to meet her. You say thanks, but no thanks, and continue on wondering." Typical Scott, only seeing the choice in binary, where there were only two options to pick from. "I'm saying yes. Plus, I really want to see the greatness that is Scott City."

"A guaranteed trip to an ice-cream parlour near home? I'm there," John seconded.

It would be nice to see how things panned out for Zoe, Virgil mused. After all, wondering what Zoe was up to was something that all three Tracys did from time to time. If a rescue had gone wrong, or there had been more fatalities than survivors, it was inevitable that one Tracy would find the other one leaning heavily on the balcony, late at night. One would casually throw out the line, "I wonder what Zoe's doing right now," to serve as a gentle reminder that while they could not be successful all the time, they were at least a saviour to someone else at some point in time.

Stretching the kinks out of his back, Virgil stood up and stretched. "So, who's coming with me to break the news to Dad? The three of us are going to need a day off."