Jeff gripped the edge of his desk - and he knew he looked exactly like his son. Even through the screen, it was clear that Alan's face was tight with a cocktail of emotion. There was anger. There was confusion. But most of all, there was fear. And Jeff knew exactly why. It had to be John, didn't? The kid can't catch a break...

"It's gone," Alan said again, shaking his head. "The plane, it just...disappeared off the radar. They're gone."

For the longest moment, no one spoke. The lounge was full, bodies drawn by the emergency klaxon and glued in place by the news. The heaviness of Alan's words hung in the air, pushing out the oxygen to leave only stunned silence in its place.

Eventually, someone broke.

"What do you mean, they're gone?"

The harshness of Matthew's tone cut through the soundlessness like a knife. Jeff's head snapped up and he caught the man's gaze, giving him a look to ward off the coming storm of emotion.

"Let's look at the facts," Jeff said, his tone brooking no battles. "Alan lost contact with Tracy One. There's a possibility that they've gone down. Virgil and Gordon, take Thunderbirds Two and Four out to the crash site."

Nodding, his two sons disappeared towards the craft. Their faces were hard.

"It's within a mile of the area in which the strange plane went down before," Alan said. "There's a strong possibility there are W.A.S.P. vessels in the area."

Jeff nodded, stern-faced.

"Get them on the line," he said. "If the plane's gone down, they'll already know."

Alan said nothing more, for the screen had already returned to his portrait. Doubtless, he was already contacting W.A.S.P.

For a moment, there was silence again. Jeff looked down; his grip was still vice-like in the edge of the desk. His gaze flicked up to the line of portraits on the wall. His eyes settled on the one to the very left.

Then his gaze shifted again, this time stopping to rest on a near-translucent face. Matthew's burst of anger had flickered out, snuffed by a gust of fear.

He opened his mouth. Then he closed it again.

Jeff kept a tight hold on his desk, as if it was the only thing keeping him afloat. He looked back at the portrait to the left.

Blond hair. Blue eyes.

Gone again.

~oOo~

In the murky sea depths, there was nothing to see. But when a transmission cut through the dark silence, Jeff's heart froze.

"Calling any W.A.S.P. vessel in the area," a voice called over the radio. "This is International Rescue."

It was like a strained echo through time, not quite right and yet familiar enough to still his heartbeat.

"Alan," he whispered.

Sheridan looked over his shoulder, eyeballing him as he responded to the call.

"This is the Barracuda," he said. "Long time to hear."

His words were dry but Jeff wasn't listening to him. His attention was focused on the disembodied voice on the other end of the line.

"Barracuda," it said. "I was tracking a flight in your area and it seems to have disappeared. Considering what happened in the area recently, I thought you might have seen it go down."

As Sheridan replied with a negative, Jeff replayed the words over and over. He rolled the sounds around, hearing the similarities, the differences. It was older...but it was him.

"We haven't seen anything, International Rescue," Sheridan said. "No downed planes, anyway."

There was a moment of silence, pulled tight as a bow. Jeff knew exactly what was going through the mind of a man who both was and was not his son. He knows there's more to this, he thought. He just knows.

"...alright, Barracuda," the voice said. "But our craft are zeroing in on your location now. We need to carry out a search and... We would appreciate it if we were allowed to carry it out. The last time, our crew was warned away."

Their craft are zeroing in... More sons and yet not sons. More confusion. More questions...

"We'll let them have a look," Sheridan said. "There's nothing much to see - 'cept for some illegally dumped nuclear waste. If your crew happens to catch the culprit, let us know."

"F.A.B., Barracuda."

Noiselessly, Jeff mouthed the letters. F.A.B., just like us... Sheridan caught his eye again.

"We'll stay in the area," he said, partly to Jeff and partly over the comm. "I'll make sure you're allowed to complete your investigation."

"Thank you," the voice said. "Our craft will be at the scene in one minute."

That was one of the longest minutes of Jeff Tracy's life. As long as the minute that followed the first time that Lucy told him she was pregnant. As long as the minute that lingered on into hours after he was told of her death.

Then when he saw the little yellow sub descend into the water, he could not help but walk forward and press his fingertips to the thickened cockpit glass.

"Gordon..."

Sheridan shook his head again. Coral kept her hands firmly on the controls.

"I still can't believe Gordon Tracy is part of International Rescue," Sheridan said.

"If it's the same as in my...time, universe, whatever you want to call it," Jeff said.

Sheridan's fingers twitched over the comm. control. But he drew them back.

"Best not call in, I guess," he said. "Don't want to muddy the water too much."

Reluctantly, Jeff nodded. He had heard one son-not-son already; the temptation to hear another was almost too great. It could be like Pandora's Box, he thought. Who knows what harm it might cause?

So instead they said nothing, and watched as Thunderbird Four slipped into the ocean depths before them.

Still yellow. Still small.

But not the same.

~oOo~

When Lyra screamed, two things happened. The first was that John looked affronted. The second was that the kid bolted.

Within a minute, Gordon was on her tail.

"Whoa, whoa!" he said as they skidded around another corner. "Slow down, speedy!"

His words were useless, though; she kept running. They spiraled around the sunken couch area several times, frustration and amusement rising in Gordon in equal measure.

"I feel as if we're going around in circles, here," he said.

The child stopped at that. And she simply stared.

"That's not funny, Uncle Gordy!"

The conviction in her voice was razor sharp. But then her words came back to slice at her again. As her eyes welled up, Gordon's heart cracked even further. He stepped forward - but she fled.

"No!"

This time, though, she didn't get far – for she ran straight into Virgil's legs. Bouncing off, she skidded across the floor, spread-eagled with long blond hair fanning out in a tangled halo. Coming to a halt underneath the line of portraits, there was no sound for the longest moment.

After a beat, Virgil jolted into action.

"I'm sorry, kid!" he said, falling to his knees at her side. "Are you okay, honey?"

Gordon jogged over and watched the play of emotion on her smooth face. Her blue eyes flicked from Virgil to Gordon and back again. Her mouth gathered into a tight zero. Then the blue disappeared as fat globs of salty sorrow slipped down her cheeks again.

"I want my dads!" Lyra wailed, the words so tainted with pain that Gordon's heart cracked even further.

He knelt down.

"Your dads are resting up," he said. "They need it after your crash. But they'll be fine."

The words did little to comfort her. Gordon looked at Virgil, whose face was set like stone. With that look on his face, Gordon knew exactly what his brother was about to do.

And sure enough, Virgil leaned forward and scooped the little girl up into his arms.

This time she didn't try to run. Instead, she wound her skinny fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck and pressed her face into the flannel at his shoulder. Virgil rubbed circles on her back, gently shushing her.

"It's alright," he said softly. "You're safe here."

The girl said something in reply but the words were lost into his shirt. Gordon rose slowly, his arms hanging uselessly at his sides.

"I'll get a washcloth," he said. "And judging by the amount of sniffling going on, maybe a new shirt for you too."

Virgil was too busy comforting the kid to take much notice of the attempt at humour, so Gordon slipped off.

He took the steps to the kitchen two at time and when he got to the bottom, he saw his grandmother in conference with his space-bound brother, hovering over the kitchen table like a blue ghost.

Grandma turned to him as he fished in a drawer for a cloth.

"Well, that sounded like a kerfuffle," she said.

"It certainly was," Gordon replied as he plucked up a soft dishcloth. There was a waft of laundry detergent as he unfurled it. "It might be an idea for you –" he flicked the cloth in John's direction before running it under the tap "- to keep your holographic face out of sight for a while. Or at least, don't make any sudden appearances. You nearly scared the kid half to death."

John's only response was to raise one eyebrow. Then he turned his attention back to their grandmother.

"I'm still not sure I agree with Virgil's choice to bring them back to the island," he said. "We don't know who they really are."

Before Gordon could interject with a cutting response, he was beaten to it by Grandma.

"Young man," she said, waving a finger at the hologram, "I challenge you to come down here, look at that kid and one of her fathers and tell me they aren't welcome here. Honestly, if you bleached your hair, you'd be identical to that blond man lying unconscious in the sick room."

Frowning, John shook his head.

"I still don't like it."

"Like it or lump it," Grandma Tracy said, folding her arms, "it's happening."

Barely suppressing a chuckle, Gordon stuck his tongue out at his older brother before giving their grandmother a quick hug.

"I love you, Grams," he said.

And with that, he bounded back up the stairs again.

When he reached the top, Virgil's uncanny knack for comforting children had taken hold. The kid was no longer crying. Rather, she was ensconced in his arms as they walked back and forth in front of the line of portraits.

"That's Scott," Lyra said, "but his hair's all funny."

"How so?" Virgil asked, adjusting his grip around her skinny torso.

The girl reached up to pet the top of his dark quiff.

"It's supposed to be this colour," she said. "And your hair is supposed to be that colour. And not as tall." The she looked at the third portrait from the left. "That's Uncle Allie, but he looks like a baby in this picture."

Gordon reached them at that point, handing the moistened cloth over to Virgil.

"Allie is a baby," he said.

Shaking his head, Virgil accepted the cloth and started dabbing it on the girl's blotchy face.

"And you," she said, her words muffled by Virgil's machinations, "have the wrong colour hair too. My Gordy has hair like a carrot."

When her eyes reappeared from beneath the cloth, they were narrow with anger – as if nothing that had happened that day had caused more affront than Gordon having the wrong hair colour. He did his best not to laugh.

"Me, a redhead?" he asked, splaying his fingers on his chest. "I think not. One in the family is enough."

Virgil chuckled and paced a little further to the right. Bypassing Gordon's portrait, the in-the-flesh version apparently, offensive enough, she reached her fingers out towards John's.

"Daddy," she said. The she cocked her head to the side. "But…not. Sort of not. I think?" Her voice trembled again. "I don't know!"

Quickening his pace, Virgil swept her to the next picture.

"And who's that?" he asked, patting her cheeks with the towel again.

Sniffling, Lyra squinted.

"I don't know," she said. "It looks a little like Auntie Tin-Tin, but only a little."

"Tin-Tin?" Gordon asked. "Isn't that the little redhead dude with –"

Virgil held out a hand to stop the rest of his comment. Gordon snapped his lips shut.

"Who do you mean?" Virgil asked.

Lyra cocked her head to the side as she stared some more.

"Tin-Tin is Uncle Allie's wife. My cousin Adam is their kid. And they're having another baby, too."

"Alan, married?" Gordon said, the words exploding from his mouth of their own accord. "He's just a kid!"

"Obviously not wherever they're from – or whatever," Virgil said, brow creasing with confusion. "I still don't understand any of this. Brains is carrying out tests on the wreckage and I think he mentioned something about DNA analyses as well. And John's checking every satellite and database he can find to see if something was recorded at the time of the crash. For all intents and purposes, it seems as if they just appeared out of thin air."

Gordon's throat tightened.

"Just like Dad disappeared into thin air. It can't be a co-incidence."

"No, it can't," Virgil said. "But at the same time, we don't know anything of use about what's happened."

"Hopefully we'll catch a break over this whole thing, soon."

At that, the comm. sounded. But instead of John's hologram appearing from his portrait, the central section of the sunken living area lit up with an incoming call sign.

"Guys," John's voice said, "we have a situation."

"Ah, irony calls!" Gordon said. "No rest for the wicked or the good, it seems."

Grandma Tracy must have taken the stairs two at a time; as soon as John had finished relaying the information, she was already extracting Lyra from Virgil's arms.

"Alright, honey," she said. "The boys have to go to work now."

Nodding, Lyra set her feet firmly on the ground. Then, in a moment that would be etched into Gordon's memory forever, she straightened her back and saluted.

"Thunderbirds are go!"

Gordon's laughter could still be heard in the lounge all the way from the hangar.