Disclaimer: The Thunderbirds do not belong to me. They are the intellectual and actual property of Gerry Anderson and his affiliates. Any original characters are a product of my imagination.
AN: An update in three days? You lucky duckies! Thank you so much to everyone that's been reading and reviewing; to know that you're enjoying this makes me feel all warm and fuzzy on the inside. :D
The sequel to Devils in Disguise, which is currently housed in the 'M' section of this site for subject matter and safety.
Needless to say, as a sequel story, OCs established in the other tales will feature in this, but I'm thinking it could still be understood if you haven't read them. Anyway, enough from me... hope you enjoy.
Chapter Nine
He hated hospitals. Of that much he knew for sure. He hated the meticulously clean floors - so different to the slovenly state he used to live in after his mother died, despite John's complaints, since they shared a room as kids - the stench of rubber gloves that permanently permeated the air and he loathed the clinical, cold, white rooms patients were prisoned in.
But his grandmother was in one, so he would bite his tongue, man up and endure it. For the first time, their roles had been reversed, Scott realised. Instead of having him shackled to the hospital bed, and having his grandma look after him, she was in his place, and as he was the next of kin that was present, he was making all the major decisions about her treatment. Without his father here for a bit of guidance, he just hoped he was making the right choices to ensure that Josie Tracy had the best chance of a smooth recovery from her ordeal.
"Scotty?" A raspy sound, as the elderly lady pushed the oxygen mask off her face.
From where he sat, Scott leant over and lowered the mask, much to her discontentment. "I'm here, Grams. I'm right here."
"The house."
"Don't worry about it, Grams. The guys and I'll start fixing it up," he reassured her. "You just focus on getting yourself better."
"I was thinking of selling it," Josie whispered, leaning into the hand Scott had placed at her cheek. "I was going to take Jefferson's advice and move out to the island. With the family expanding as quickly as it is, all the great-grandchildren," a slight smile at Scott, as he was the one who was providing most of the new members of the Tracy clan. "I wanted to be as close as possible to you."
This tidbit confession caught Scott's attention. His grandmother had never mentioned any desire to leave the home that had been passed down from Tracy generations. In fact, it was quite the opposite; Grams had been adamant in not leaving their home ground, resisting all methods of persuasion her son and grandsons had employed on her. To the best of his knowledge, no other Tracy had been privy to the matriarch's change of heart.
"Who's going to buy a derelict house now?"
The despondency in the tone of the question planted the seed of an idea in Scott's mind. Naturally, he'd have to talk it over with his brothers first, but he couldn't really see them objecting to buying out and taking joint ownership of the Tracy farmhouse from their grandmother. Even though they weren't living on the mainland any more, Scott was sure that the house would be put to good use, maybe as a drop-in shelter for anyone who was down on their luck and needed a helping hand.
"That's not important," Scott emphasised. "Bricks, wood and mortar, that's all the house is. It can be reconstructed. The memories will be there, whether the house is rebuilt or not. You, on the other hand, are a loving, caring, free-spirited, generous being who is, without doubt, the best cook I know, and someone I am proud to have hanging onto one arm at social gatherings and be able to call my grandmother. That's irreplaceable."
Tears welled in Josie's eyes, and a few spilled out onto her cheeks, at the bare honesty behind Scott's words. Scott drew his thumb up and wiped them away, allowing Josie to really observe at her grandson.
Scotty didn't look so great. His face was gaunt and hollow, skin pulled tight across his skull. Normally bright, cobalt blue eyes were dulled, coupled with dark, shadowed rings under his eyelids. Even his posture screamed out stress when he sat, with his shoulders so hunched they were touching the ends of his ears. Back ramrod straight, too stiff for someone who had just participated in a strenuous rescue.
"Scotty?"
This was what Scott loved about his grandmother. Even in her current predicament, she still looking out for her boys, still watching all those little tell-tale signs that told her that something was not quite right in their world.
"Yeah?"
"Is there something you want to tell me?"
Scott had had no intention of burdening Grams with his problems, but the open invitation and the stress of it all got the better of him. Before he could stop himself, Scott found the verbal waterfall tumbling from his mouth. He let the words slip, telling his grandma about the FBI issues he was having, the fact that he felt that his father didn't implicitly trust him thanks to the aforementioned FBI issues, the sinking gut feeling that something less than favourable would inevitably strike him soon, the added responsibility of getting John back on track, and the outcome of the pending court case.
"I'm just a big screw up all around," Scott said with a self-depreciating chuckle. "But what else is new, then?"
A hefty sigh on Josie's part; she had little to no strength to do more. For a man who had the power to make his brothers feel like they were kings of the world with a few choice words, or even a smile, Scott sure had no self-esteem, reinforcing the low opinion he had of himself.
"I just… I wish I could talk to Mom, have her knock some sense into me before telling me that everything happens for a reason and the chips will fall where they may."
A clumsy pat to his cheek. "Scott Tracy, your mother may not be here to knock some sense into you, but I can. Listen closely, because I shall say this only once. You are not a screw-up, and no matter what happens, I am proud to call you my grandson."
Alan had thought he was safe and secure, performing routine maintenance on Thunderbird One, but he should have known that Virgil would eventually confront him.
"So," Virgil said easily. "Word has it that you dropped the charges."
"And so what if I have?" The words came out uncharacteristically harsh, but Alan didn't see the point in Virgil berating him. What was done was done, and even if he wanted to, he couldn't change his actions.
"Do you have any idea what you've done?" Virgil dropped his voice to a dangerous, harsh, half whisper, making him seem as dangerous as a grizzly bear that had woken up from hibernation early. Never a good idea to poke a volatile animal with a stick, but Alan sometimes ignored good ideas.
Hot-headedness trait shining through, Alan fired back his answer. "Yeah, actually, I do! I went out to a place where people were in need of my help! I saved lives of those who would have otherwise died! I did my job, in other words!"
"But at what cost? How much more shit are we going to have to put up with on rescues?" Six months' worth of rage and anger were finally breaking loose from Virgil; Alan just happened to be there to bear his brother's wrath. Alan became Virgil's unintended victim. Something Virgil didn't mean, but he couldn't help it. Everyone had a limit, and Virgil had long surpassed his.
"I was swinging from a rope noosed around me! I was literally hanging onto my life by a thread! I had five grenades explode in my mouth!" Ashamed at the tears that had formed – damn, he was a Tracy, and Tracy's never cried, no matter what the circumstance – Virgil turned his back to Alan. "Until you found me, I had no idea if you were safe or not, and that hurt the most. More than the pain."
Alan was many things, but despite the teasing comments Gordon shot his way, he wasn't stupid. He knew exactly what Virgil had meant with his last comment. Unsure of how to respond – touchy-feely Oprah moments weren't his forte – Alan, wisely, kept his mouth shut.
"We not Supermen, Alan, and the charges you dropped were the only way to remind that to the world. We're not saints either; we can choose to be selfish if the outcome provides a safer working environment for all of us." Hefting a sigh, Virgil tossed a manila file onto a desk on the gantry. "I hope it was worth it."
As Alan reached for the file and leafed through the loose papers, his gut twisted. Virgil had left behind the medical reports of all the injuries he had sustained. X-rays, CT scans, MRIs, even a mould of Virgil's fractured skull and jawbone had made it in there. Virgil was right, they weren't Supermen. They weren't invincible, nor were they expendable. There was nothing like a bit of heavy emotional blackmail to make Alan feel even worse than he did, and Alan found himself detesting Virgil for using such tactics against him.
But Virgil was wrong. They were a team that had spent the past half-decade dedicating their life to a cause that was greater than their individual being. Why, even when the opportunity presented itself, should they choose to put their own needs above the needs of innocent civilians? Maybe Virgil had forgotten, but Alan was certain that they lived in a utilitarian society; the needs of many people were greater than Virgil and his combined.
No, if he had the chance to replay that moment, Alan would still make the same choice. He would still drop the charges. Out there in the field, he had saved lives, he had made a difference.
Looking squarely in Virgil's hardened, honey-burnt eyes, Alan tossed the file back. "Considering that I saved lives, considering that Grams is still alive, thanks to us, yes, it was worth it." Steely blue eyes flashed in Virgil's direction as Alan thought about what the nightmarish rescue from six months ago had cost him. As a result of the wolves tearing muscles from various parts of his body, Alan could not sire any more kids; he couldn't give his son a little brother or sister. Knowing what Leroy would miss out on, and knowing that there was no way of rectifying the situation pierced a hole through his heart.
"You weren't the only who was hurt that day, Virgil! I carry the scars, John carries scars, Gordon carries them and so does Scott! They're not in plain sight, or maybe they're not physical scars, but that doesn't mean they don't exist! So pull your head out of your ass, stop focusing on yourself and take a look at the bigger picture. Contrary to popular belief, not everything has to revolve around you!"
Since news had broken that operatives from International Rescue had dropped the charges, Special Agent Mark Perry's full attention had reverted back to his murder case.
With the grace period the District Attorney had given him to re-examine the evidence to see if Tracy could have been cleared, no new, conclusive evidence had been found. It was disheartening, but Perry knew that he would have to be the person to place a member of an esteemed organisation under arrest.
Firstly, he had to battle his way into the DA's office. Fighting through the throng of media that had formed outside the building – they all wanted a statement on how International Rescue's withdrawal from the trial would affect the outcome of the Haddon case – Perry was accidentally jostled by one journalist. The file folder in his hand – the one which held all the evidence and the folder that tied the Tracy family to International Rescue - fell to the floor, papers scattered everywhere.
"Here, let me help," the journalist said, knowing he had caused the mess, kneeling down and gathering up the papers. Curious, his eyes scanned the documents he had in his hands. Oh, boy, he had just stumbled upon the mother of all newsworthy stories. The story he had in mind was much bigger than the Haddon case, and it would set him up for life.
"Do you mind?" Perry snapped, hand outstretched, not wanting to compromise his case with leaks to the media.
"It's all yours," the reporter replied, handing the papers back to Perry as they pushed themselves off the floor.
Without a glance back, Perry marched into the building. Seeking out the office of the person who would be prosecuting his case, Perry closed the door behind him.
"No new evidence," he muttered, handing over the evidence case to the DA.
"I thought as much. You would have informed me if there was."
A beat of silence. Perry opened his mouth, but he was cut off instantly.
"The answer's no, so don't ask me to reconsider. I've already explained the position I'm in."
Wordlessly, the DA handed Perry a folded, official looking piece of paper. Without having to look at it, Perry knew what it would contain.
It was the arrest warrant for Scott Tracy.
