Chapter 71.

Had he not of taken over International Rescue, Scott would have become a firefighter.

Ironic really, considering his whole life pretty much revolved around putting out fires. And not just the hot kind that chewed through combustible material like Gordon at a pizza party.

If there was one thing Scott was ridiculously well-versed in, it was dealing with problems on the fly. While solving said problems wasn't always guaranteed, dealing with them definitely was.

Scott could recall the day when he'd first become aware of this innate skill; a humid Monday in late August fifty one. He'd been in the middle of juggling several incoming rescue calls and signing the down payment cheque for Gordon's braces, when Alan and Virgil had both wandered into the room with the tell-tale signs of chicken pox. John had recoiled in such horror that he'd tripped clean over his feet and smashed into their grandmother's favourite vase (which also happened to be a fifth generation family heirloom). As the cherry on top, the water company had then rung to rant about a payment that was three days overdue.

Scott had surveyed the disaster zone with the calmness of a monk. Rescue calls were temporarily forwarded to the GDF, a cheque signed, two brothers quarantined and dosed up with paracetamol, a vase hastily superglued back together, another brother suitably chastised for his clumsiness and an overdue bill paid.

Contrary to popular belief, Scott was quite capable of keeping his emotions in check when under stress. He just needed the right environmental conditions; a south easterly breeze, prolonged high tide, low humidity and a waning crescent moon.

Like most of the metaphorical fires Scott spent his days extinguishing, this new one involved a brother. A blond one, to be precise.

Although surprisingly, not Gordon. The aquanaut had made himself quite at home on a comfy patch of grass on the perimeter of the polo pitch, an embarrassingly large pile of 'match snacks' stored safely in his lap. For once, Thunderbird Four's pilot found himself far away from the epicentre of the ongoing trouble his family seemed to be cursed with.

Scott meanwhile, was busy trying to encourage Alan to pull his pants down.

Naturally, his request was met with significant resistance of both the physical and verbal kind.

"Alan, how am I supposed to see how bad it is if you won't even let me look at it?" Scott grouched, handing Cosmos's reins to a thoroughly amused Virgil, "Come on, it's not like I haven't seen your backside before."

"Yeah, when I was a kid!" Alan snapped, swiping at the seat of his trousers in a way that reminded him of his doomed date with Kayo, "I'm fine Scott, honestly."

Scott sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. They'd been in the middle of mounting Dotty's horses when a kamikaze wasp had taken offense at Alan's existence and divebombed the youngest Tracy, dodging flailing arms and slapping hands to land an expertly timed sting square on the derriere of International Rescue's youngest member.

According to Virgil, people could be divided into three categories when dealing with a possible wasp attack. Category One was the casual swiper, Category Two the stay-stiller and Category Three the all-out panicker.

Scott and Virgil were manly enough to not care about getting stung, while John and Gordon were unmanly enough to not care about the awkward positions their Stop, Stare, Freeze and Pray technique often landed them in. Dear, sweet little Alan was unfortunately the sole occupant of Category Three.

"Scott, leave him be," John sighed, tightening his grip on Inka's reins, "I'm sure he'll be fine. Alan, just let us know if it starts to tingle or go numb, okay."

The youngest Tracy bit his lip and braced himself against Dala's neck, "It started tingling about five minutes ago. I thought that was normal?"

Virgil's eyes widened as he started fossicking through one of the small saddlebags he'd attached to Zantor's saddle. John had curtly informed him that non-tack items were strictly prohibited under polo rules, but nothing got between Virgil Tracy and his trusty first aid kit.

"I've got some hydrocortisone cream in here somewhere," the engineer muttered, sifting through the bag's contents, "Though I've never used it before, so don't know how much or how little we'll need."

"What does the label say?" John asked, hissing in annoyance when Inka tried to snatch at some grass.

Thunderbird Two's pilot frowned and squinted at the text printed on the back of the plastic tube, "Ahem…if unconscious, seek medical attention."

Scott's eye's rolled so far back they almost got lost inside his skull.

"I'm fine, honestly," Alan insisted, swinging onto Dala and squeaking in pain when his butt made contact with the saddle, "Seriously guys, let me be the judge of my own health for once."

The look of irritation on Scott's face signalled that nothing would please him less, but time was unfortunately not on his side. Lady Penelope had just announced their names over the tannoy and the crowd was going wild.

John squared his shoulders and tried to suppress the wave of nervous nausea he could feel bubbling in his stomach. He'd spent a couple of minutes reading up on the rules of polo while Scott and Alan had been tacking up, but knew his knowledge was substandard at best.

Thankfully, they had EOS.

"Okay team, listen up!" the AI barked, her tone similar to that of a school sports coach, "Polo is quite simple to understand. Two teams of four players try and hit a ball through goalposts stationed at opposing ends of the field. Teams switch ends every time a goal is scored to equal out ground and weather advantages. A match is comprised of four chukkas, each of which lasts for seven and a half minutes. Chukkas are separated by three minute intervals except at half time, which lasts for five minutes. Players fight for control of the ball by riding their opponents off or by hooking their mallets. A player riding in the opposite direction may only hit the ball with the corresponding forehand or backhand of the original player. Any questions?"

All four Tracys looked fit to faint as they rode side by side out onto the pitch.

"Yeah, just one," Virgil began, gulping when he saw the sheer volume of people who'd turned out to watch them, "How dangerous is polo compared to other sports?"

"Oh, very dangerous," EOS replied, clearly unconcerned by the weight of her words, "Casualties to both horse and rider are practically customary. I don't have access to any up to date figures, but the most common cause of rider death is being trampled, according to local news reports dating back over the last decade at least."

Scott felt himself die a little as he glanced at the rather squashable form of his youngest brother.

"Ladies and gentleman," Penelope's crisp voice danced through the air as the Tracys emerged from the protection of the tunnel that connected the stables to the pitch, "It is with great pleasure that I present today's rival team. Originally hailing from Arizona, you probably know them as the boys who pilot the renowned Thunderbird crafts. Some of you may have even had the pleasure of meeting them once before! When not embarking on dangerous rescues, these lads devote much of their spare time to promoting charitable campaigns, just like the one we're running today. All proceeds from this match will be donated straight to the Todos Juntos Children's Trust, which provides free dental care to underprivileged children here in Buenos Aires."

A polite round of applause rippled through the crowd…

…which was nothing compared to the mad cheers that erupted when Penelope began to individually introduce each brother.

"Player One for International Rescue is none other than the great Scott Tracy!" Penelope began, her voice rising in excitement, "A gifted pilot and equally gifted rider, Scott is the glue that holds both International Rescue and his family together. I speak from experience when I also say that his cooking is second to none."

Scott took one hand off his reins and waved confidently at the hordes of madly cheering people.

"Player Two for International Rescue is Virgil Tracy," Penelope continued, the smile in her voice evident, "Virgil is an accomplished medic and engineer, and possesses the broadest skillset of all the Tracys lads."

John made a mental note to disable Penelope's Wi-Fi as soon as the match was over.

"A skillset that isn't limited to just his work," Penelope ploughed on, "For Virgil is also a talented pianist and artist. For those of you taking notes, his favourite colour is green."

The screams from the stands reached eardrum-shattering level.

"International Rescue's third player is the famous John Tracy," Penelope yelled, fighting to project her voice over the nearly hysterical crowd, "John is the man responsible for coordinating all of International Rescue's missions and is most likely the person you'll end up talking to should you ever find yourself in a pickle. If his ability to multitask in zero gravity doesn't impress you, then his linguistic skills will. To date, he's fluent in over a dozen languages."

"Marry me!" a voice from the crowd bellowed. John couldn't tell if the person was male or female.

Penelope cleared her throat awkwardly, "And last, but most certainly not least, Player Four for International Rescue is Alan Tracy. One of the youngest astronauts currently active and an authority on all things interstellar, Alan is International Rescue's very own spaceman. When not blasting into orbit, he enjoys sleeping, eating and annoying his brothers."

A low rumble of amusement vibrated around the audience. Alan felt his cheeks catch fire.

"He's also one of the only people alive to have successfully landed on Halley's Comet," Penelope added, smiling when the crowd exchanged their murmurs of mirth for gasps of admiration, "With precision flight skills as good as his, I can assure you that I certainly wouldn't want to take him on in a sport that relies heavily on hand-eye coordination."

At the other end of the pitch, the home team exchanged nervous glances from atop their own mounts.

"Before we start," Penelope continued, "I would just like to take this opportunity to remind everyone of the dual purpose of today's match. Aside from raising money for charity, it is also to commemorate the birthday of International Rescue's Head of Security, Miss Kayo Kyrano. Today's match is hosted in her honour, and I hope you will all join me in wishing her a very happy birthday."

The smug smile Kayo directed down at the Tracys when Penelope finally relinquished the microphone was downright sinister. It took every ounce of John's willpower to not give Thunderbird Shadow's pilot the finger.

Upon catching sight of the expression on John's face, Virgil decided to try his hand at some last-minute humour.

"When killing with kindness doesn't work, use a polo mallet," the engineer suggested, swinging his own for emphasis whilst eyeballing the home team, "Results may vary."