aleatory (n.) - relying on chance or an uncontrolled element in the details of life or in the creation of art
Paint splattered in a rainbow of reds. The force behind the brush, the hand, the elbow and arm came down hard, flicking the blood-like liquid onto the laid-out canvas on the studio floor.
Paint.
Wet, luscious, stains of pigment, turning blank white to vivid emotion.
-o-o-o-
The air screamed as Thunderbird Two tore into a turn midair that almost…almost defied the laws of physics.
"Gordon, now!"
Virgil's harsh yell skipped across comms to his brother deep in the belly of the plane where his hand flicked a manual release.
Outside in the howling storm a lone grapple threw itself into swirling grey.
-o-o-o-
Grey.
Not Payne's Grey, not the subtle blue of a stormy midnight.
No, this was a sickly grey. A destructive grey. A grey that could reach out and strangle you when you weren't looking.
It dripped. Single spots landing amongst the red slashes.
Until anger splattered it hard.
-o-o-o-
"Virgil talk to me! Did it work?"
"Negative." The word was dragged across his lips. Virgil tugged on the yoke, fighting with his 'bird. She wanted out, but he needed her to be here.
He had to be here.
"Discard and reset."
"Do we have time?"
"Just do it!"
An explosion at a high-altitude military platform while they were attempting to evacuate the crew caught both One and Two into its unexpected blast range. One went down, crippled, her starboard scorched and wing buckled. Two faired better, but for a few moments there, Virgil had thought the worst.
He managed to keep her aloft and give chase to his plummeting brother, but half her systems were fried, including the firing mechanism for the grapple launchers. Fortunately, his targeting system was intact, but in order to activate a launcher, Gordon had run downstairs and fire it manually.
Two wailed as he forced her to dive once again, engines working against the forces of Mother Nature herself.
-o-o-o-
Black.
It the most appropriate. Not for its colour, but its lack of it. It shone in his studio lighting, mesmerising as a glob on the end of the fat wide brush in his hand. He could almost find beauty in it.
If it wasn't sucking his soul dry.
It dripped lonely spots.
Black on red.
Black on grey.
Black on empty white.
He just stared and let it happen.
-o-o-o-
Their last chance was so sudden there was no time for thought.
A flash of lightning, a flicker of display and Thunderbird One fell past them once again.
Virgil spun his 'bird into striking distance, his targeting sensors lit up the dash.
"Now!"
His younger brother didn't reply, but the grapple fired.
Thunderbird Two shook in the wind.
Almost impossible.
Impossible.
God, please!
His readouts suddenly flashed green in confirmation of a strong connection.
Yes!
Two shook again, her whole flight stability shuddering.
"Gordon, get up here!"
And then the grapple line snapped tight.
-o-o-o-
Blue.
He held the tube in his hand.
It was the correct blue. Cerulean. The blue of skies. The blue of International Rescue. The blue of his uniform. The blue of hope.
He held it and his fingers tightened.
-o-o-o-
Thunderbird Two tipped sideways and fell.
Virgil yelled as he fought the yoke. "Goddamnit!" His fist pounded switches and VTOL roared out of sequence, her rockets firing erratically in a desperate attempt to right herself against both the storm and the sudden weight of her sister.
"C'mon!" It was one hell of a fight. He'd obviously done something to piss off Mother Nature recently because she wasn't giving an inch. Wind and rain battered at Two's fuselage, tossing her about, and in her weakened state, she was struggling.
But ever so slowly, she righted herself and began gaining height.
Her airframe whined.
"You can do it. C'mon, Number Two." He bit his lip clean through.
It was slow. Ever so slow, but Thunderbird Two crawled up and out of the hurricane, reaching into the whites of swirling cloud.
Into the blue.
-o-o-o-
Blue.
It swelled over his fingers, the tube popping open and bleeding through his grip.
A hand touched his and took the tube away.
A rag appeared and gently wiped the paint from his skin.
So soft. So caring.
The rag was put aside and blue, blue eyes dipped to peer into his. "Virgil?"
That sky so far above that hurricane swirled in his brother's irises.
Virgil opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
-o-o-o-
"Scott! Do you read me?! Status?"
The commline creaked with static, but his heart started beating again when he finally heard his eldest brother's voice.
"I read you…-ird Two. Thanks for the -ave. No flight -bility, but no injur-y. S-me fancy flying there, Virg-"
Virgil let out a laugh in relief. Thank god. "Gordon! Scott's okay!"
The only answer was the drone of Two engines.
"Gordon?"
-o-o-o-
Blue.
His big brother's shirt was blue.
Long arms wrapped around him and drew him in.
Harsh breath against blue fabric.
"It wasn't your fault, Virgil."
"Wasn't your fault."
-o-o-o-
He couldn't put her on autopilot. She was barely flying as it was.
"Gordon?! Answer me!"
His little brother didn't.
Panic swelled into his throat.
"Scott, I have no response from Gordon."
He brought their little convoy to a halt, keeping her in a fragile hover far above the clouds.
He didn't need to ask. Scott was there in minutes.
And Gordon was found.
-o-o-o-
Virgil let the comfort last a few more seconds before gently removing himself from his brother's embrace and turning back to his palette.
Yellow.
It glared at him.
"Virgil…"
He reached over and picked up the tube. Cadmium Yellow. The most vibrant yellow available.
The cap was tight and it bruised his fingers as he unscrewed it. Squirted onto his palette, the paint was as luscious as the red before it.
"Virgil…"
A fresh brush and he dipped hairs into that glossy shine. He lifted the palette up in one hand and knelt down in front of the canvas…almost reverently.
The acrylic already on the canvas was drying, all except for the thickest spots of paint.
His brush drew a line, bright…ever so bright yellow amongst the depression of the grey, the spots of all consuming black and the anger and pain of the red.
He drew a line.
Then another.
The cadmium took the red and made it orange, the grey disappeared under its opaque pigment and the black bled green.
"Virgil…"
His hand moved faster, paint slapped onto the canvas, catching the few flecks of blue that had been splashed.
A moment and he grabbed that mangled tube from the bench where his brother had left it. It was tacky, damp, and it messed up his fingers.
But it was sky blue. The blue of his brother's eyes and the blue of their uniforms.
The blue of hope.
Combined with the yellow of sunshine, of his brother, Gordon.
It made green.
Beautiful, beautiful green.
The canvas transformed under his fingers. Where red and black tragedy had splattered a sun now rose over green fields, scattering the grey sky.
It was awkward, irregular and messy. Unpredictable, but beautiful.
Much like his little brother.
Scott crouched down beside him. "He's going to be alright, Virgil."
Yellow paint stained his fingers, along with the blue and the secondary green. "I know." A staggered, indrawn breath and he turned to his big brother. "I can't do this without him, Scott. Any more than I can do it without you." Ever so quiet. "Blue and yellow make green."
A hand gentle on his shoulder. "He is going to be okay!"
Yes, Gordon was going to be okay, but a broken collar bone, broken leg, and so much bruising, how many injuries was his little brother expected to bear in his life? Those moments of desperately trying to catch One, the sudden wrench to port. Gordon had been unsecured and thrown about like a rag doll. He was lucky he hadn't been killed.
And Virgil hadn't given it a single thought.
Too focussed.
Too determined.
"I should have realised. I should have…known."
How could he not have known?
"And what could you have done differently if you did?" His brother's voice was worried frustration itself. "You did what you had to do."
Injure one brother to save another. "I…" He closed his mouth.
A hand landed on his shoulder. "You did your best. You saved me. We saved Gordon. It is what we do." A pause. "You need to forgive yourself."
He didn't know if that was possible.
Paint dripped.
And the colours blurred in his vision
-o-o-o-
FIN.