Chapter 98.

This chapter is dedicated to the brave and hardworking lunalittlemiss, who deserves nothing but peace and happiness this Christmas. Her friendship has helped fuel many chapters of this adventure.

-x-

There was one photo that hadn't featured in Scott's PowerPoint...

…a slightly blurred shot of him attending a mountain rescue with a baby Alan strapped to his back.

After Lucy's death, Jeff had thrown himself into International Rescue's work and had spent more time off the planet than on it. Not content with this arrangement, Scott had taken it upon himself to care for the youngest Tracy as if he were his own. He'd refused to hire childminders and, prior to their grandmother's relocation, had seldom trusted his brothers to babysit. The result: the most well-travelled two year old in living history.

Scott's original modus operandi of securing Alan to his back had hit complications when Captain Taylor had presented him with his beloved jetpack. With no other option, the eldest brother had been forced to grant Virgil permission to babysit whenever the metal rucksack was required. When Virgil had been unavailable, Grandma had been drafted in. When Virgil and Grandma had both been unavailable, the services of a private day-care centre in Auckland had been called upon.

Naturally, Alan couldn't remember any of this. He had however felt an odd weight in his chest when Gordon had suggested chucking the aforementioned photo into their slideshow. He knew they put the eldest through hell on a daily basis, but Alan was smart enough to know that of all his brothers, Scott had done the most for him. He'd never gone hungry, never been made to feel like a burden, and never wanted for anything (both emotionally and materialistically). Scott had a college fund set aside for him, but had made it very clear that the decision to embark on higher education was his and his alone. If he decided against pursuing a degree, then he had his very successful aquanaut brother to turn to for advice.

It was these thoughts Alan blamed for the small seed of guilt that bloomed in his stomach when John pasted his face against the window of one of Paris's most esteemed restaurants.

And Scott and Kayo's last known location.

-x-

Forty five minutes earlier….

"Are you sure we're in the right place?" Gordon queried, gazing up at the Eiffel Tower in shameless awe, "Seems a bit of an obvious destination. You don't think he's put us onto a false trail, do you?"

John muttered something rude and double checked the location indicators on Scott and Kayo's biometric trackers, "Three blocks down on the right. Seriously, Gordon? Thunderbird One is literally just over there."

Gordon squinted accusingly in the direction John's finger was pointing, his eyes widening when he caught a glimpse of Four's older sister.

"I checked, and every single restaurant here is booked up months in advance," Alan muttered, crossing his arms and glancing suspiciously to his left and right, "What's our plan of attack?"

Being in such close proximity to his seemingly treacherous older brother seemed to have dulled John's reasoning skills, for it was without a moment of hesitation that he set off briskly up the boulevard they were on, murderous intent glittering in his turquoise eyes.

Alan was swift to scamper after his brother, leaving Gordon behind to tend to Virgil. After arguing for ten minutes over how to transport the now completely boneless engineer, the youngest three had mutually agreed that the best method would be to load him into the wheelchair stored in Two's med bay. A quick round of rock paper scissors had saddled Gordon with the job of wheeling the second Tracy around The City of Lights.

"Look who's driving now," the aquanaut snickered, tightening the strap that was holding Virgil's torso upright. He'd had the forethought to drape an emergency blanket across most of the engineer's body in a bid to cover up his bindings, lest any passing French person assumed Virgil had been kidnapped, or worse, was on day-leave from an asylum.

"Wait up, guys!" Gordon yelled, using his brother and the wheelchair he occupied as an improvised battering ram as he barrelled after the retreating forms of his space brothers. John didn't break pace, signalling that he either hadn't heard the aquanaut or simply didn't care enough to bother slowing down.

A couple of pedestrians raised their eyebrows disapprovingly at the sight of Gordon tanking down the pavement like an out of control mother with a pushchair. Virgil's straightjacket-style blanket, coupled with his glazed expression and slack jaw did little to aid his younger brother's cause. To the untrained eye, it looked as if the engineer was either paralytically drunk, or in a semi-vegetative state.

Gordon was distracted from his mission as a mouth-wateringly delicious smell suddenly assaulted him. Sticking his nose in the air, his olfactory cleft detected notes of cinnamon, pancake batter, and vanilla.

"Crepes!" the aquanaut squealed, his inner child exploding with excitement at the sight of the well-known French treat. Abandoning his pursuit of Alan and John, he banked to the right and made a beeline for the pretty young woman who was manning the griddle.

Unfortunately, Gordon's sugar-induced tunnel vision gave birth to two unjustifiable mistakes. One was his failure to realise that he didn't have any money on him. Two was his failure to realise that, in his excitement, he'd loosened his grip on the wheelchair handles.

"Mon Dieu!" a woman shrieked, diving out of the way as Virgil freewheeled down the pavement's natural incline and tanked towards the Seine.

"Shit!" Gordon screamed, abandoning his crepe (which evidenced just how serious the situation was) and bolting off after the rogue wheelchair and it's passenger. He knew he'd never catch Virgil in time. Thankfully, he was highly trained for such situations.

A 'splash' that almost displaced a nearby boat sounded as Virgil Tracy hit the water of Paris's most iconic river. In a cruel twist of physics, the engineer bobbed for all of three seconds before sinking into the depths. Life rings were hastily tossed and several hysterical tourists began gesturing frantically for passing barges to drop their lifeboats.

Instinctively, Gordon tore off his shirt and dove in headfirst after his brother. People were quick to scoff at him for always removing the clothing from his upper body whenever he swam, but it served an important safety purpose. The drag caused by sodden fabric hampered his speed, and a sleeve or hem snagging on something could greatly complicate an ascent.

It took less than a minute for the aquanaut to swoop down, unclip his brother from his bindings and drag him back up to the surface. Years of rescue training paired with a natural affinity for water rendered such incidents fairly straightforward.

The cheering crowd was a bonus.

Gordon beamed in gratitude as several kind-hearted strangers reached down to help haul the sodden Virgil back onto dry land. Guilt gnawed at the blonde's stomach when he realised that he was to blame for the entire situation. The water had been cold, but not worryingly so. Gordon's primary concern was whether the drugs in Virgil's system had prevented him from sealing his nose and holding his breath, but a quick check confirmed that the engineer's facial orifices were still watertight. Thankfully, whatever was coursing through his veins hadn't impaired his diving reflex.

Due to the differences in hair colour and facial structure, people were quick to assume that Gordon and Virgil were unrelated. Furthermore, Virgil's ongoing inability to speak (and thus prove his nationality) led most of the concerned observers to assume that he was a Parisian citizen. Gordon was hoping against having to use his high school level French to explain the situation, but was saved from having to do so by an official looking man elbowing his way to the front of the crowd.

"Well done, monsieur!" the man enthused, reverting to English upon spying Gordon's dirty blond hair and lightly tanned skin (both of which apparently gave off zero French vibes), "On behalf of 'ze Paris River Police, we would like to offer you a reward of your choosing for 'zis act of public 'zervice 'zat you 'ave so bravely performed. 'Zis disabled man 'ere would no doubt 'ave drowned without your quick thinking. Perhaps monsieur would like a private tour of 'ze Louvre? Or a cash reward up to 'ze value of one thousand Euro?"

Gordon tilted his head and gratefully accepted his discarded shirt from the pretty woman who'd been about to give him a free crepe, "Are restaurant reservations an option?"

The official smiled, causing the handlebars of his moustache to rise slightly, "But of course!"

"Which one is the most popular with people who are from out of town?"

-x-

"What!?" John shrieked, glowering at the tuxedo-clad man standing between him and the door to one of the fanciest restaurants he'd ever laid eyes on. He was within thirty feet of Scott, and now had this pretentious twit to deal with.

"Sorry, monsieur," the waiter shook his head and double checked the clipboard in front of him, "As I said, I cannot see your name on 'ze list 'ere. I'm afraid admittance into 'ze main building is limited to reservation holders only."

"Tracy! Tr-ay-cey!" John honked, gesturing madly with his hands, "My brother is sat literally right there, Mr Scott Tracy. We're both from International Rescue."

The guard sighed and smiled apologetically at the people queuing behind the smoking redhead, "Do you 'ave any form of identification on you? And I'm afraid I 'ave no bookings under 'ze name of Scott Tracy."

John squinted suspiciously. His brother must be using a fake name….the cunning bastard.

"Passport or driver's license will suffice," the guard prompted, holding his hand out expectantly, "I'm afraid I'll need to see an official document evidencing your connection to International Rescue before I can let you in."

Alan swore he could see a thin trail of steam rising from atop his ginger brother's head. While he knew John adored the isolation of orbit, the main downside to the redhead's hermit lifestyle was that he was the least recognised member of the team.

"I don't have either on me right now," John spat, rolling his eyes in a manner similar to that of a parent dealing with an obnoxious child, "I can offer you a private tour of my vehicle's cockpit, also known as Thunderbird Two, as an alternative though?"

The guard rolled his eyes, obviously under the impression that John was several peas short of a casserole. A quick flick of a cufflinked wrist and the redhead found himself being manhandled to the other side of the street by two burly security guards. Alan cringed, his chest clenching with embarrassment as his ginger brother kicked and squealed like an adoring fan being tossed out of a celebrity's dressing room.

"EOS!" John hissed, wrenching his bicep free from the guard on his left, "Destroy that guy's credit rating! Mortgage and car repayments be damned. Ruin him!"

Alan's attempts at pacifying his carrot brother were interrupted by the arrival of Gordon wheeling a soaking wet and dribbling Virgil past the queue of people John had shamelessly kept waiting for fifteen minutes. An officer of sorts appeared to be accompanying them, along with a gaggle of fawning citizens and tourists.

"'Zis is 'ze best restaurant in 'ze city," the officer announced, his voice carrying the twenty feet to John and Alan's ears, "It's usually booked well in advance, but my department will 'appily override a pre-existing booking if you'd like to dine 'ere. Don't worry, we'll make sure 'ze individuals in question are offered a different date and are financially compensated for 'zeir loss."

Gordon pasted his face up against the window, eyeballed the interior, and nodded his affirmative.

"This place looks perfect, thank you so much," the aquanaut beamed and held his hand out in gratitude. He may not have had Scott's charisma, but he exuded his own charm and was easily the most personable of the brothers. Such attributes made getting his way in most situations a piece of cake.

"Excellent!" the officer beamed and jabbered something to John's newfound nemesis in French, before swivelling back to face Gordon, "I've told Jean 'ere to send 'ze bill straight to my department. We'll happily pick up 'ze tab for all the food and drink you and your…acquaintance, consume. Bon soir!"

John's eyes widened in disbelieving incredulity as Gordon sashayed through the door that was being held open for him and Virgil, "GORDON! Wait!"

The aquanaut paused mid-stride and glanced over his shoulder, caramel eyes glinting snobbishly, "Yes, can I help you?"

Alan elbowed John in the ribs before he could blow a fuse, "Gordo, tell them we're your brothers. No way are we getting in on our own merit."

Gordon elevated his nose a touch more than was necessary and glanced briefly at the despairing Jean, "I do not know these peasants. Please evict them from my presence."

"GORDO, WAIT!" Alan shrieked, panic consuming him as a pair of unfamiliar arms began to push him backwards, "I'll do all your chores for a month! No, two months! I'll clean Four's intake valves. I'll mop your portion of the hanger. I'll do your laundry. Just name your price!"

The first offer held Gordon's attention. Cleaning sludge, dead fish, silt, and general sea debris from Four's intake valves was a smelly, messy job that often took half a day to complete. The offer to utilise child labour in that regard was definitely appealing…

"Let them in," Gordon ordered, jerking his head in Alan and John's direction, "And can our table be as close to the lady and gentleman on number twelve as possible?"

Jean nodded frantically. Anything to be rid of these troublesome weirdos…

Troublesome weirdos that were, unbeknownst to him, about to live up to their name.