Disclaimer: The Thunderbirds do not belong to me. They are the intellectual property of Gerry Anderson and his affiliates. No money is made from this. This is for enjoyment (and I use that term loosely) purposes only.

Hanging On By a Thread

The biggest challenge a Tracy faces is simply holding on long enough to be found.

Deep breath in.

Deep breath out.

That's it, just keep on breathing.

Just one more breath. Just until he gets here. From your left, Gordon wipes some drool from your mouth. It seems like yesterday that you were doing this for him as a baby instead of him doing it to you.

The stroke caused irreversible damage to so many parts of your brain. It's hard for you to have any sort of motor control. Your time is running out; the major stroke led to miniature strokes that occurred more frequently. Not that you're complaining; you've had a good life, a good run, and maybe, just maybe, it's time to end on a high note.

From your right, Scott sniffs. Your eyes dart towards him and your heart breaks at the sight of your sixty year old son. It's the first time in Scott's adult life that you've seen him cry. Beside him, Virgil hands him the tissue box.

Back in the day, this is something that the boys would have teased each other over. But your boys are more mature now, more world wisely, and dare you think it, more sensitive and in touch with their emotions. You conclude that it's a side effect from their respective marriages. Not a bad thing, either, you realise.

"I'm okay," Scott offers you a watery smile. "I'm okay."

You and he both know he's not fooling anyone, but living a charade is infinitely more preferable to facing reality, if only for a brief respite from the harsh truth.

"Did I tell you Pip's been accepted into Yale? She got the acceptance message yesterday."

Your eyes darken as you try to remember who the hell Pip is. And then it hits you; Pip. Scott's second youngest granddaughter. The one that's Scott in feminine form.

Virgil reads the speculative gleam in your eye. "That's right, Dad," he continues. "She's taking after Scott in more than just physical appearance. Double degree in Aeronautical Engineering and Finance while also earning her pilot's licence on the side. We know; we're proud of her too."

In the silence, the door bursts open and John barrels in, as only a fifty-nine year old can.

"Dad!" he cries out, anguished at the sight of you. "I'm here. It's okay. We're all here."

Eyes guarded, you regard him. You wonder if he's forgotten about… what's-his-name… Alan.

"Alan's gone," Gordon prompts, gently, softly. "He's with Mom now."

Oh, yes, you remember now. A space mission gone wrong resulted in Thunderbird Three being lost in the universe. It was likely that Alan had been killed by the radiation or vaporised by a flare of some sort. It was the final nail in the coffin that closed International Rescue down for good. Alan was forty when it happened.

Your sons assemble around you. You feel something relax deep inside your chest.

You've held on long enough; it's time to let go. You let the image of your sons gathered in front of you burn its way into your retinas.

They are the last thing you see as your eyes close for the last time.