Edits to made to aid later continuity. My mistakes. Sorry.
10. Understanding
Dinner had been a subdued affair that evening, with every stab at conversation melting away to nothing, and getting nowhere fast. Kyrano, sensing the unease in the household, had pulled out all the stops, presenting a baked fillet of Scottish beef, topped with oyster mushroom fricassee for the main serving. He'd hoped good food might have bought the warring family back together.
Good intentions aside, it hadn't managed to soften the tension any.
Gordon was consuming his generous helping of the food so quickly, it was doubtful he'd manage to taste it, let alone enjoy it. Jeff glowered venomously in the swimmer's direction, over the mahogany tabletop, needing no words, and instantly the young man slowed down his digestion just a little.
TinTin sat quietly eating her meal, all hushful big, brown eyes, and curtain-ing, long black hair tucked behind her ears. She'd tried to attract John's attention a few times, but failed miserably.
She'd thought he might have been able to explain to her what was going on. Why Scott was pushing food about his plate absently, glaring daggers at the innocent vegetables, and why so unusually, no one was talking?
Mealtime was when business and recreation was discussed, over a friendly candle glow, and quietly chinking cutlery.
Back when his family had first moved to the island, John had taken the time to speak with the young Eurasian girl (late one sleepless night, when both had been wandering the vastly, expansive villa), to make her feel welcome in the strange world that belonged not to her, but to five, extraordinarily close siblings. This time though, it didn't seem that he was going to come to her rescue. Maybe Gordon, later…
All of a sudden, without any form of a warning, Scott pushed his chair back from the ornate, richly coloured dining table, screwing his napkin up, and unceremoniously dumping it atop his plate. Now, Jeff looked up at him, sharply.
"Scott?" The caution, and suggestion that the ex-fighter pilot was treading cracked ice, was there.
Remarkably, Scott kept his vision squarely on his still full plate, not meeting his father's diamond hard glare. Another usual thing.
Muttering something that sounded somewhat like 'excuse me' he exited the room; leaving dancing candlelight illuminating his now empty space, and the rest of the table perplexed and fathomless.
John gestured towards the door, thinking about attempting to squeeze whatever was bothering Scott, out of him, like he knew Virgil would have done without a thought, saying,
"Maybe, I should-"
But a determined sounding Jeff, his voice with a slight bitter edge to it, cut him off.
"No. You can leave him. If Scott has a problem, he can speak to me about it."
TinTin tried to shrink a little further back into her seat. Normally Mr. Tracy was either off the island with business, or holed up in his study, working. The few times that he got involved in life outside the little desk that was nearly his complete world, seemed to end up with blazing arguments and stony faces. She didn't want to end up in the middle of it, intentionally or not.
It definitely wasn't her place, to be there, in the centre.
And so, the meal finished in silence, with Gordon carefully taking more time over his serving, and John keeping his head down over his plate, once again trying to hide in the shadows.
Outside of the dining room, Scott stalked down the hallway, towards his own private rooms. It had all been too much. His father had annoyed him on other occasions, done some damn stupid things, but he'd never tried to sit there, at the meal table and pretend nothing was wrong, before.
Well, Scott couldn't do it.
It wasn't as though Jeff could have missed the signs that Scott was unhappy, he'd never been all that good at hiding his frustration; not like John was. That boy was born sneaky. Normally, his father would have made a point to talk things through with him, or to avoid him. They both knew they were too alike, especially when against each other.
Disagreements just couldn't be left to stew between the two headstrong men, anymore than you'd leave a small child out in the world to fend for themselves.
Reaching his rooms, and slamming the white bedroom door behind himself, Scott lent back against the cool veneer, breathing heavily for a moment. It just… got to him, that he'd been able to help, and might have left people suffering, prioritising his own safety over theirs.
Sighing, and rubbing his tired eyes absently, his tumbled thoughts settled a little on one idea. It seemed there was only one thing for it. To bite the bullet, and check the news. See what the world was making of their abandonment of Albania.
Indiana, Evening (UTC-5) of the discontinued rescue;
"No, dang, way."
Alan Tracy, all big, blue eyes, and wide-mouthed shock, stood in front of an electronics store; plasma screens on display in the window. All of them were tuned in to World TV's news station, where a 'day-glow orange' tan reporter, wearing too much make-up, and a fake smile stood before what appeared to be a remotely located power station.
He couldn't hear the sound through the thick glass storefront, but the scrolling titles were enough. 'International Rescue Leaves Meltdown Site'.
Again, no way.
Unable to get on track, and set up the race cars until tomorrow, Alan had decided to take Virgil out, downtown, to help him pick out the first of what was to be many gifts for TinTin this Christmas. He planned this year to start early with the shopping, to make sure he didn't repeat last year's fiasco, when he was still without a present just a week before the big day.
After the stores had closed, the pair had grabbed dinner at an All-You-Can-Eat buffet, and had been headed back to the hotel for a night watching rented gangster films and late chat shows, when Alan stopped at the window front.
The street was still busy, people bustling about their last minute business; no one paid attention to a teen fascinated by the latest technology.
Virgil continued to walk down the street, hands deep in his pockets, and music rolling about his mind, when he realised his brother was no longer with him. Not bothering to retrace his steps, he called back,
"Alan. Come on. I want to have a look at some stuff myself, you know."
The blond didn't move from where the words were blazing in front of him. His brothers had launched, but not followed through with their intentions? Huh?
Wanting to get back to the hotel and drop the bags he was carrying, as soon as possible, Virgil tracked back to Alan, ready to drag the errant teenager by his shirt if necessary. Which was when he to caught sight of the television screen.
"What the hell?" He breathed quietly. Then deciding, Virgil grabbed his brother's upper arm. "Inside."
Lower levels of Tracy Island, the gym;
Scott had changed into sweat pants, and an old workout tee in his room, before heading down to the gym. He strapped up his hands, and then begun to pummel a training bag, working out frustrations through perspiration and burning muscles.
A radio station (sounded like one of Alan's punk-rock channels) played out in the background, starving the silence away with harsh guitar rifts and thrashed drumbeats.
Scott found, the more he worked, the clearer he found his thoughts became.
He was distracted for a moment by an overhead light flickering, and the thought that he'd need to change it later. Then, his troubles and worries came pouring back, like an opened dam.
He was annoyed at his father ordering them home, and if it had been just his safety in question, he might have argued back, but not with John in the equation, so what was it that bothered him so much?
The news had shown that the message had been right. There were no casualties, and the error in the system seemed to have fixed itself, so the only broadcast they were following up, was why International Rescue had never made it to the scene. It was a line of enquiry that bothered Scott, but well, the world would see there was nothing wrong when the next emergency call was made. Right?
Scott continued to workout, until exhausted he flopped down against the wall, half draining a plastic bottle of water.
Screwing the cap back on, he continued to think, and in a moment of realisation, saw/found what was wrong.
It should have been obvious, and he silently berated himself just a little more for being so damn thick. It wasn't so much today's rescue that bothered him (after all no one had been hurt, and he couldn't have honestly risked his brother's life), but it was those rescues to come. The ones they weren't going to be able to attend; if this threat was as real as it seemed, that was.
It was the feeling that he'd already let people down in the future, which was already consuming him. He could envisage the headlines now, 'INTERNATIONAL RESCUE ABANDON THE WORLD, AGAIN'.
He just couldn't let that happen. None of them could. Those behind the threat had to be found, and dealt with, swiftly and quietly. And it had to happen soon.
Jeff's office, later that evening;
Since he'd bought his scattered family back together; to live, work and relax alongside each other, Jeff Tracy had been more fulfilled than he'd been in a long time.
He'd not realised he missed having his sons about him, until they'd been returned. Okay, so things still weren't perfect. An accident, and heart-felt apology (whilst the boy had been mostly unconscious because he couldn't have done it to his face) were not going to mend things immediately with Gordon. And it wasn't as though he was faultless when it came to the others. No. There was still much fixing to be done.
However, despite secretly enjoying everyone's company, to get any work done, he had to barricade himself into his private office, and thumb-up the volume on the speakers, drowning himself in classical music. If anyone walked past his door, and heard Bach or Mozart wafting past on lazy sound waves, they knew better than to interrupt.
This evening though, there was no music – hopefully, an open invite if any of his sons (meaning Scott) wanted to talk.
The boys' grandmother, his own formidable parent, had often commented on how alike himself, his eldest was. Jeff had always taken that to mean the lad was a leader and ambitious. Recently, he begun to comprehend that his mother had been alluding to those qualities; but also that Scott was unable to leave work be, and that he holed up his emotions, packing them away until he had the time, and courage, to pick them apart, and begin to understand.
Since he'd entered his office, some forty minutes had passed by, un-intruded upon, and empty.
To be honest, he'd not expected Scott to appear in the doorway. The moment dinner had ceased, stomachs full and bodies watered, all three of the remaining table guests had excused themselves; Gordon and TinTin disappearing in one direction, and John, the other.
No doubt, his second eldest had gone to try and fill the void Virgil had left in his absence, as Scott's sounding board. A position he… envied? Wanted for himself?
He damn well wished his sons would talk to him just a little more, anyway. The fact they had each other had always been a comfort, whilst he'd been away at the office, or on foreign conference visits. Now… Now he had the time to listen, it bothered him. Made him feel unnecessary, a spare wheel.
Straightening the papers on his desk again, just for something to do, other than sit and consider all the wrong directions his life was taking, Jeff's eye was caught by a printed copy of the words the threatening, online message had held. Brains had constructed the sheet and handed it out almost immediately.
Seeing those words there, standing out black and strong, against a crisp, pale background, made it all that more real.
'Respond to any more rescues… launch your Thunderbirds… you will be shot down…'
It had taken him by surprise, like a sudden storm, bringing howling crosswinds and biting rains. John and Brains had earlier coded a programme to trace the file back across the Internet, to its source, upon his orders. There'd been no word yet though, which was why John wasn't staring at a computer screen. Some things just couldn't be hurried. And Scott… He might as well have told him to stand down, for all the use he'd made of the boy.
No. He didn't need his son to come and talk to him to realise what was wrong. All he had to do was consider his actions, and it was easy enough to see.