50: In and Out of Character

Tracy Island, Lab 4B, around the cluttered gaming table-

Alan required a break to (as he put it) "gas up the ol' physics engine," so his players got a moment to sit back, compile and drink beer. Plenty of beer (root, in Fermat's case, some kind of lemonade-gin British concoction, in Gordon's). And, considering that they were all still reeling from Alan's last game scenario, a little rest was a very good thing.

Scott set his longneck back down with a decisively sharp thump, indicated Gordon and asked,

"So… just how 'slow-witted' are we talking, here?"

It was John who answered him, because Gordon and Fermat were too busy plotting against their absent dungeon master to listen.

"Coloring books and one-syllable words, for about the next two days," the astronaut told him, shrugging resignedly. "Happens every time."

"But he'll get back to normal again?" Scott persisted, a little anxious over just letting their group leader circle the IQ drain, like that.

"Yeah, eventually. Best thing to do is just sit tight and let him sleep it off. Don't think that's going to be an option with Freddy-damn-Krueger running things, though."

Laughing, Scott drained the last of his beer, then reached over and cuffed his skinny blond brother, who was just relaxed enough not to quite dodge.

"Let me guess," the fighter pilot said to him, "we're about to be slimed to death by man-eating, radioactive snails."

John shook his head, fatalistic as a Prozac-deprived oracle.

"You'll find out," he said.

Changing the subject and grabbing a fresh bottle, Scott mused,

"Lady Penelope's due in tomorrow."

To which John merely shrugged.

"And…?"

"I don't know. Just thought it might loosen dad up a little… maybe give me a chance to ask about taking some time off in San Francisco. You know the classic cure for stress, little brother: more sex and better vacations."

Maybe it was the Coors, or possibly he was just in a free-associating kind of mood, but Scott leaned way back in his seat… one hand cupped protectively around his best friend the beer bottle, the other rubbing at the back of his own neck… and asked,

"Think she'll make a better ex- Mrs. Tracy than Gen did? Penny, I mean?"

It was an innocent enough question, just speculation, really; but John turned to give him one of those rare, very direct "what the hell are you talking about?" looks. The kind that made him feel about three years old and still in diapers.

"I think she'll do what she wants to do," John told him, in a very quiet and icy, end-of-subject voice.

For just a second or two, recalling Penny's behavior aboard Thunderbird 1, Scott began to wonder if maybe… But, no. That idea was too stupid for words. John…? And Penelope…? Riiight. His brother hadn't had a serious relationship since what's-her-name, back in college, and was probably a lot better acquainted with CGI hotties than the real thing. Seriously, when did he have the time?

Scott might have asked about that; about whether there were any female astronauts back at the Swamp or IMS who raised the ol' cabin pressure… But Alan walked into the room just then, snickering at his own plans. He had a "boy, are you guys in trouble" expression on his face. Made Scott long to seize the homicidal young dungeon master and practice a little origami on him. Properly folded up, Alan would make a damn fine lucky crane, the pilot thought.

"Okey-doke, ladies," Alan called out, signaling everyone back into character, "It's time for round two. I'd tell you to get ready, but it wouldn't do any good, 'cause the goddess of no-way-in-heck dice rolls isn't coming to the rescue this time. No more last minute wyverns or miracle-saves."

Gordon glanced over at Fermat. The young boy grinned slyly, and then looked away, obviously privy to some DM-busting secret coup attempt. Lounging beside him, the swimmer managed to keep a straight face, but not very well. Pretty clearly, something was going on.

An instantly suspicious Alan gave them all the mean, hairy eyeball. Then he stalked over to his seat, thumped down and grabbed the dice, saying,

"Whatever it is, don't. Because, A: it won't work and, 2: I won't let you. Got it?"

Gordon could do a fair job of appearing innocent when the notion took him. Well, rather innocent.

"Sorry, mate," he said to his scowling brother. "Haven't a clue what y'r on about."

"Yeah, dude… sure thing. Just remember you said that, when Sir G ends up in traction, with a team of romance-starved orc nurses providing his daily sponge bath!"

But the red-head's smile held perfectly steady.

"Long as they mind th' tender bits," he joked sweetly, further irritating Alan.

Uh-huh, sure, the dungeon master said to himself, setting up his screen and papers. I got you, bro… I got you.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

En route to Tracy Island, from the estate of Sir Hugh Walsingham, in Scotland-

Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward did her best to relax in the passenger cabin of her private jet. Rather a difficult matter, as she'd just come off playing a certain role for dear old Hugh (Britain's WorldGov representative) and now had yet another complex mask to don, this time for Jeff Tracy. Information to deliver, as well… but cautiously, and with much deliberation.

Penelope had several employers, whose various needs and demands had the occasional, regrettable tendency to clash. Such was the case, now. Yes, the World Government had once again placed acquisition of International Rescue very high upon their eyes-only docket. They also wished exploitable information about Stavros Valianatos, James Springfield and Jeff Tracy. In certain of her guises, Penny helped to provide this information (though, in dear Jeff's case, never quite enough to hand WorldGov genuine leverage).

Now she was expected to report these findings about the World Government to her contacts at International Rescue, while keeping the interested parties unaware of her double involvement. Triple, actually, if you counted the odd bit of assassin's work that came her way. Add to this stringing Jeff along whilst secretly meeting with his son, John, and her poor head was simply throbbing.

Penny leaned backward in her leather seat, closed her blue eyes and rubbed at both temples, head back and striving for peace. The jet's constant vibration and comforting whine lured her toward sleep, but the tired young noblewoman had bits of speech to rehearse and a rendezvous to plan. John (damn him, anyhow, for not ever troubling to call) would be utterly stand-offish until reminded that her behavior with Jeff meant nothing. That… just like Hugh and Eduardo… and eventually this Valianatos… Jeff Tracy was little more than a diverting assignment.

For a moment, Her Ladyship allowed herself the gentle indulgence of a daydream. She imagined that she and John were off on holiday… to Corfu, or Malta, perhaps; away, at any rate, able to hold hands in public and even to kiss there. She visualised using her name and his, without concern, whilst engaging a villa at the magnificent Paleokatritsa. Waking up together and staying that way… ordering room service, paddling about in turquoise water and being very, very much in love. Stupid, really, and ridiculously unattainable, for Penny had roles to play and John loved no one at all but himself.

Tears slid from the corners of her tightly shut eyes, made their way past her still-rubbing fingers, over her ears and into Penny's up-swept blonde hair. Life was a perfect mess. You did your bit, muddled along as bravely as possible, and then settled up at the end by losing bloody well everything.

Very well, then, Penelope decided, all at once gone terribly fierce, Let us have something foolish and lovely to pay through eternity for. Something grand.

"Parker," she said aloud, her voice as genteel and steady as though ordering tea.

"Yes, Milady?" Her driver responded from the cockpit.

"Ring up the Villa Sandra, in Corfu, and make a week's reservation for two, if you please. Engage it for… let us say a month hence."

"Yes, Milady. And which names shall I provide?"

Rather giddily, she replied,

"John… and Penelope… Matthews. Mr. and Mrs. John and Penelope Matthews."

"Very good, Milady. Will there be anythin' else?"

She kept her eyes closed, focusing past engine noise and filtered air to that longed-for azure water and diamond-bright sun. Past that, even, to five days and four nights with a borrowed husband and a stolen name. Heaven itself, even if she had to sneak and lie to gain entrance.

"Thank you, Parker. That will be all."