Disclaimer: I don't own Thunderbirds.

Beep… Beep… Beep…

The shrill noise pierced his head unpleasantly. It was familiar, frustratingly so, but as unconsciousness slowly permitted him to drift awake, he couldn't find a single reason for it. Who was hurt?

And why, he wondered as he peeled his eyes open briefly to see a sterile white ceiling, was he lying in a bed? A hospital bed, with wires pressing against his skin.

His memories held no answer, for all that he probed at them.

The mission had been a simple one. Solo, even, his brothers still fast asleep in their beds as the dead of night cradled home in its embrace. A trapped climber was routine by this point – Alan likened it to International Rescue's equivalent of the fireman's cat up a tree, for all the comparison was somewhat inappropriate. Grandma had told him off for that, when she'd heard him say it. He hadn't, seeing the humour. Grandma had then told him off for not being a responsible adult and schooling his youngest brother.

The woman shouldn't have been there, alone amongst the peaks of the Rockies with no backup as dawn broke to find her camp set up too close to a precipice and a simple rockfall cutting off any route she could take with the gear she'd had. She'd made the call, and Thunderbird One had been dispatched to pick up the latest in a long list of stranded climbers.

After he'd set her down at the base of the mountains, he'd started talking with John about sending out a worldwide PSA to please be careful in the mountains. It had started off a joke, something to keep his mind alert as he turned the beautiful red nose of his girl towards home, but he'd barely left the American coastline before their discussion took on a more serious note. Too many climbers were taking risks that just never used to happen. International Rescue was being taken for granted, and they only had so much capability to be in multiple places at once.

The beautiful, rugged spires of home had come into view, John signing off from the conversation for another of his cat naps, and he'd landed Thunderbird One safely in her silo without a hitch. He remembered post-flight checks, making a note to check a minor issue with a shoulder harness later after some sleep, and then disembarking onto the extended gantry as usual.

Then, nothing.

Had he fallen from the gantry? His brothers were periodically clucking about the lack of a handrail – Gordon, in particular, disliked it – but he'd never felt unsafe on it. It was high above the hangar floor, however, and while the beep… beep… beep… steadfastly continued, he was in no pain. An unchecked fall from that height would have left his body broken.

Experimentally, he flexed his fingers. They obeyed instantly, hands curling into loose fists and then extending again. His toes responded equally positively. No paralysis, tricking him into thinking there was no injury, then. Well, he'd always take good news, and more made itself known as he drifted a hand up to his head. No lumps, bumps or bandaging of any sort.

In fact, there was no bandaging anywhere. He'd spent enough time injured over the years to know the slightly itchy feeling of the fabric against his skin, but nowhere could he feel even the tight stickiness of a plaster clinging to his skin.

Thoroughly mystified at the information his memory and sense of touch were relaying, he opened his eyes again. This time prepared for the white, he didn't immediately close them again. Instead, he looked around, realising with a sinking feeling that wherever he was, it wasn't home.

The room was an infirmary of some sort, as he'd initially surmised. With at least one other bed in clear view, and room for more between metallic tables and cabinets filled with meticulously organised jars and bottles, it was clearly private, rather than hospital-grade. He was reminded of their infirmary at home, ready for use at a moment's notice despite ignored prayers that it would never be needed and kept organised by the iron fists of Grandma and her willing protégé Virgil.

There was a window, though. At home, carved into the rock their villa was as much an extension of as an intrusion upon, the infirmary had no natural light source. Artificial lights and holographic visages kept the room from being a dark dungeon. From his position on the bed, he couldn't see outside, but the light streaming in through open blinds was entirely natural.

Most bizarre of all, however, was the technology surrounding him. At a glance it seemed outdated, the light-up displays using something that seemed even older than LEDs and not a hologram in sight. John would dismiss it as junk, he assumed, before realising that he had no idea what most of it was for. Numbers flickered, not even digital but a flick-flick-flick of cycling cards. If not for the labels – tacky, raised lines of metal forming letters and words – the idea that it was monitoring his blood pressure and other vital signs would never have even crossed his mind.

Basic competence with standard hospital technology had been drilled into them all firmly by Grandma, even if only Virgil had taken it further than the fundamentals needed to keep someone alive long enough for professional medical help to arrive. Outdated technology had been included in that list, anything Grandma had ever used throughout her life a requirement because not everywhere had the technology of International Rescue, or even an up to date machine.

He could say with certainty that he wouldn't even know where to start with the technology surrounding him. Logic dictated that that meant it was even older than Grandma, or state of the art beyond even Brains' inventions, but neither felt right.

There was nothing primitive about the machinery, for all that he still maintained John would find it fit for the WRMs. Brains and Virgil would be itching to take it apart, see how it worked and whether they could improve it, or find inspiration to improve their own.

Speaking of his family, it was odd that none of them were nearby. Virgil almost always camped out if someone was injured or sick, and if he was away on a rescue another Tracy would step up to take his place. Gordon never stopped talking when he was on infirmary duty, finding topic after topic to plough through until he found one the injured party reacted to and milked it for all it was worth. Alan, in true teenager fashion, was a fidgeting wreck unless he had his games with him; it was not unusual for him to flop belly-down on an unoccupied bed with his headset on in his own form of company. John might not be capable of physically being in the room, unless it was so bad he'd felt compelled down from his beloved stars, but constant communication links allowed him to be tied in at all times.

Of all his brothers, it was John he was most surprised to have seen or heard nothing of since he awoke. His vitals should have been being streamed straight to Five, no matter where in the world he was – John would have known the instant he regained consciousness and responded accordingly. Even if, as he realised, his uniform and communicator had been relieved from his person.

Someone, presumably the person responsible for settling him in the unfamiliar infirmary, had changed him out of his flight suit and into soft, flannel pyjamas. They were comfortable enough, even if they weren't his usual style, and fit perfectly. His uniform, he discovered with relief after another look around the room, was folded neatly on a chair. Everything was there, his baldric still full of grapple packs, barring the one used up on the rescue, and the grapple itself, and the controls for remote piloting both One and his jetpack remained three per bracer.

Wherever he was, and whoever had put him there, it appeared no-one was interested in investigating International Rescue's gear. At least he could rule out the Hood, he supposed, although perhaps he'd have preferred their nemesis to the total unknown…

No, he decided after a moment's deliberation. He wasn't quite that desperate. He was unrestrained and his gear was safe. That automatically made the situation far better than anything involving the Hood.

Still, too many questions and no answers for any of them spurred him into action. Pushing himself up into a sitting position, wires tugging futilely before falling away and sending the machines into a frenzy, he steeled himself to make a break for it – out of the room and hopefully ending up somewhere that would give him the answers he needed.

The door opened as beeps turned into squeals, and he turned towards the new arrival, hoping to see Virgil or Grandma, hands on hips as they chivvied him back into bed.

It was not Virgil or Grandma. Nor was it any of his other brothers.

Sharp blue eyes surveyed – analysed – him, set into a face that was hard to read. Furrowed brows gave the stare an almost disturbing intensity as his conscious state was registered; they were almost the same colour as the mop of short dark brown hair on the man's head. Dimples that, if coupled with a smile, could bedazzle and disarm anyone completed the look, and he felt his jaw drop slightly before strength of will forced it shut again.

Standing in front of Scott Tracy, arms crossed and wearing a look of cautious suspicion he knew all too well, was Scott Tracy.

Oh boy, so I've been working on this for literal months and it's gonna be a hell of a ride. Strictly speaking, I haven't got far enough in writing this to be totally confident in starting to post it, but it's Thunderbirds Day and quite frankly there is no day more perfect to start this particular adventure. I have a vague plan to update this approximately weekly, but we'll see how uni interferes with that...

Thanks for reading!
Tsari