Sorry for delays. My Design Tech. project is nearly at construction stage though. Less worries from that point onwards.

11. All For One

The news report had been damning. Spreading crap and giant great, dirty smears across the reputation of International Rescue, just for starters.

World TV had found their most annoying, loud mouthed and scandal-prone reporter to send out to Albania to provide live, on the scene, coverage of the 'no-longer' emergency. Flying Abigail Tillman-Muller by private helijet across continents and oceans, the news channel had been first on the scene, and got the exclusive, breaking news before any other competing station.

Let them pick the swing of the correspondence, too.

After all, concerned worry for the welfare of International Rescue didn't sell minutes and airtime half as well as slandering presumptions that the organisation was abandoning the People.

Virgil Tracy was stood in an electronics store, trying to listen in to the simultaneous broadcasts, whilst attempting to appear interested in a large television set. Alan had given up on subtlety and was staring, still open-mouthed, at the screen, unbelieving. He wasn't alone, either.

The normally quiet store had become jammed with 'customers', their hushed, whispering conversations filling the area with a soft buzz, the air crackling and popping with gentle anticipation.

'To those of you just tuning in, I'm standing outside the recently neglected area of Tirana, in the country of Albania, where International Rescue failed to see through its promise of help and aid…'

With a faked look of shock and sympathy plastered across her face, the reporter went on for a while, always pursuing the story just a little further down the slippery walkway of twisted truths, and blatant lies.

Just doing her job really. Honest news got no one anywhere these days.

Alan waited until the end of the relay, when someone in the California-based studio returned to the screen, with a,

'Thank you very much, Abby. Now, we have an expert in the studio with us this evening, who…'

before nudging his brother away from the crowded plasma screens, and back onto the ignorantly passing-by street. Virgil seemed to be on another planet, his head was probably lost in striking music or dramatic brush strokes, befitting the situation perfectly. Normally, that's where he was, anyway, when you couldn't get a coherent answer.

Completely different in looks and personality, the middle Tracy could be a lot like his elder brother, John, sometimes. Could do the whole 'vacant' -thing perfectly.

All Alan knew was that they had to get back to the hotel, and speak with their brothers. Now.

Taking the paper store bags from Virgil's hand, he began pushing back through the swarming, evening shoppers, who were all trying to get home or those last minute purchases, in the direction they'd come in, hoping his brother would notice, and follow.

The main high street was over-crowded, noisy and sweaty; an easy place to lose a trailing companion amongst the massing body of adults striding about their business, and children swaddled in thick coats, and bobbled hats, protected against the incoming winter weather.

Scanning side roads for a quicker route back to the hotel, Alan started, caught off guard when someone pressed into the side of him, forcing him to stumble awkwardly into a back passageway. He spun around, coming up swinging, when he made out Virgil as his 'would-be' attacker. Pulling his punch at the last moment, Alan just grazed his brother's left shoulder, who'd turned away against the oncoming blow.

"C'mon," Virgil muttered, not stopping to give Alan a moment to collect his thoughts, or ask dumb questions.

Still reeling a little from Virgil's sudden return to awareness of the world, and his own, nearly-assault, the race driver faltered after his brother, taking a moment to gather himself together.

"What's going on? Virgil? Virgil?"

Ignoring Alan's frustrated whines, and reaching the end of the dank alleyway, Virgil peered out into the street-lamp lit road beyond; much less packed and thronging than the one they'd just left. Travel would be quicker this way, and they were less likely to be split up. Stepping out, and turning right, heading up the road, he finally replied,

"John left a message. He's got information for us." Pausing, he pushed Alan down another cut-through. Apparently Virgil was a lot more observant than he'd seemed. Then, picking up his hushed explanation again, "About your contract problems. And, while we're speaking to him, I want to know what's going on."

The 'and make sure they're all okay' was left unsaid. Because, something important had to have happened today, and Virgil couldn't help but worry that it was something of the dangerous kind.

Tracy Island, lower levels, lab and the gym;

John Tracy had evacuated the dinning table the moment gold-plated spoons had been set down upon aurous-rimmed, china bowls, and glasses had been emptied. He'd thought about going straight to Scott, to try and weasel whatever was wrong out of his storm-cloud dark brother. Other things had filed themselves with higher priority though, in his mind.

First, he'd headed down to one of Brain's less cluttered labs, where six computer stations sat whirring and buzzing to themselves, working through some programme, or another. John'd commandeered two of the systems for his own work earlier that evening, and sat down before the first of them.

He'd transferred the background search on Richard Lanning to the Island's server from Thunderbird Two, shortly before they'd landed, and now pulled up the data he'd collected.

Richard Lanning/Robert Lanning/Rob Lambert (all the same person it would appear); ex-convict, imprisoned for three charges of fraud, and one count of attempted perversion of the justice system; current address one of three possible locations in and around Indiana and Michigan.

Not good. Seemed Alan's wishful employer was a practised con artist, and a well accomplished one at that. Almost seemed kind of a shame this time he'd picked on someone who'd fight back this time.

Pulling Virgil's earlier e-mail back up to the active screen, John replied back with a few short, to the point sentences, asking for an immediate response as he held vital information. One job done, John moved along to the next workstation, running through his mental 'To-Do' list.

Here, tracing programmes were running, routed through the space station-housed super-computer, Five, as they were chewing up more memory than the earth-based counterpart could manage.

Whoever had posted the message appeared to have a fairly decent background in electronic subterfuge. There were dead-ends and hidden, false pathways a plenty to follow, and if you weren't slick enough, get lost down. Almost playground stuff though for John. It was with a little reluctance that he (and Hackenbacker, maybe) was going to have to tear the elaborate set-up apart.

Still nothing could be done to neutralise the threat until the source was located, and it seemed the computers were handling the problem fine, without John's constant input.

So, steeling himself somewhat, the tall, ice blond left the subterranean laboratories, and headed out the computer lab and along the corridor. Climbing up a single flight of stairs, John entered onto the 'entertainment' floor.

The belowground space held the island's gym area, along with a home-cinema set-up, and the boys' personal games room. Bypassing the latter two, John knocked and went on in to the fluorescent tube lit workout room.

Scott appeared to have finished his workout, and was sat up against the wall, nearly empty bottle of water in hand. Lost in thought it appeared.

The pilot seemed not to notice him, and for a lengthened second John stood, framed in the tall doorway, watching. It'd been a long time since Scott had looked so… Confused? Utterly puzzled? Whatever his brother's demeanour was anyway, it didn't happen often, and was enough to make John stop and look.

Virgil probably would have pulled a piece of paper and a pencil from his pocket and captured the moment, and Gordon or Alan would have used it against Scott some point later in life. John just noted it, and mentally filed the moment away.

Breaking the petal-fragile image, he stepped further within the harshly lit room, and headed over to lean against the wall beside his brother, one leg bent up supporting himself. Taking a deep breath, and digging up what little courage he could find, John began to speak.

"I know, um, normally I don't notice or make anything of other people's feelings and stuff, but, well…" Pausing, the astronaut grappled for the right words. "Well, it's been like having a damn category 5 hurricane over the island, Scott. I mean, what the hell?"

The ex-fighter pilot didn't look up, and for a long moment John wondered if he'd even been listening. Turns out he had.

"I know. And, I guess… I'm sorry? Or something like that anyways."

As good as their Father then at admitting to emotional stuff. John snorted slightly, almost smiling, then shook his head slightly, sending blond hair rippling outwards and down in front of his eyes.

"You sure know how to clear up confusion."

This time Scott did raise his line of vision, to give a hard eyed, raised eyebrow glare.

"Shut up, John." Then smirking somewhat, "Not like you're the King of Communications however, is it? It's all sort of hard to explain though."

Years of pretending his emotions didn't matter, because, well, his brothers' welfare had always been more important, left Scott without the ability to easily open up, and share what was inside. Being Jeff Tracy's son hadn't helped either. Stuffing problems away inside was in his genes.

John nodded though, from his position up against the wall.

"Yeah. I get it. Kind of."

And that was it. Conversation over.

Like always, Scott would go back to living as though nothing was wrong except the obvious (in this instance the problems that were threatening his family). And John was John. Nothing that was going on now had changed him yet, and probably wouldn't. John didn't just store his feelings in a box like everyone else; he packed them in concrete, tied them in chains and threw them to the bottom of the ocean.

Either that, or he was overly good at hiding it. Anyways…

"So, what were you doing on the flight back? Looked important."

John sighed a little. Apparently nothing could escape his older sibling's attention. Might as well confess now, he reasoned. Scott would find out eventually. He always did.

Like how he'd found out about those boys who used to take Virgil out the back of the playing field, and use him as a punch-bag, back in Oakley High, and how he'd found out about Alan's many in-school suspensions, and threatened expulsions (mainly for attention-seeking behaviour; but that was another kettle of fish for another time).

So,

"Some work for Virgil and Alan. Seems our youngest brother has got himself in a little trouble. Again."

Never one for long speeches, the rest fell out in quick, concise facts; leaving Scott with a clear understanding of exactly what was going on east of the Island.

Finally, standing to join his taller brother, Scott stretched out until his shoulders popped and muscles pulled tight. Nodding to the space between himself and his quiet, very useful sibling and friend, he said,

"I'll be there, when Virgil calls back. If Alan's really in trouble, we're all going to be there for him." He stepped towards John, reaching out to touch his shoulder, whilst making eye contact with blue-violet eyes so like his own.

Picking up the chain of thought, John continued,

"Which means we need to have a word with a certain brother, don't you think?"

Nodding, and already heading towards the door, Scott agreed.

"Yeah. Get Gordon and meet me in the front reception room in fifteen minutes."

A few minutes later, Upper pool deck;

Gordon was lazily swimming lengths of the larger, lower pool, enjoying the fading sun and his nearly returned strength, when a dark shadow fell across his path. Reaching the edge, the young auburn haired man stopped, treading water.

Looking up, he saw his second eldest brother, John, silhouetted against the disappearing evening sun. Strangely beautiful scene that, with the deep red light catching the almost white blond hair of the astronaut in odd ways.

"You need anything, John?"

Looking slightly above where Gordon actually was in the pool, he nodded.

"Yeah. Scott wants both of us in our front room, ten minutes. Wants to have a discussion, or something."

Shaking some of the dripping water from his eyes, Gordon edged right over to the side of the pool, ready to lever himself out.

"Sure thing. I'll be there."

Then, in an uncommon, casual idea, John stepped down to where his brother was about to lift himself from the water. Leaning down, and holding out an arm,

"Want a hand?"

Startled by the unusual offer, Gordon took a moment to accept. Reaching up though, he grasped his brother's hand,

"Um, thanks."

Because help came sometimes from the most unexpected of directions, and bridges had to be built (and maintained) at some point; otherwise one day there'd be no one left to come back for you.