Disclaimer: I don't own Thunderbirds.
Logic screamed that he was actually facing the Hood, the twisted man adopting his own appearance for some scheme or other that Scott really didn't want to know about. His gut told logic to go take a hike – there was no way the Hood would be standing there, barely two feet from his uniform, and not raiding any and all technology he could get his grubby little paws on. Nor would the Hood leave him unrestrained when he'd had plenty of opportunity to secure him during the gap in his memory.
Besides, the Hood was a perfectionist. His disguises were flawless, a product of technology Brains rolled his eyes at but acknowledged was an engineering masterpiece, if sadly in the wrong hands. This Scott in front of him was not a carbon copy.
For starters, much to Scott's chagrin, the man's hair was a healthy brown all over. No grey traitors wormed their way along his roots, signs of stress he desperately tried to ignore even as his brothers taunted him for their existence and pulled stunts that felt designed to increase their number. The brown was also slightly lighter than his own, although that could just have been a product of more washes and less gel. Despite the lack of grey hairs, he also got the impression that this man was actually older than him, if only by a year or so.
"How did you get here?" His voice was different, too. The pitch wasn't the same, nor was the tone quite right. Virgil could give a better summary of the nuances, he was sure.
The words, though. Those were all Scott, right down to the sharp delivery and clear expectation of a prompt answer. Skipping pleasantries, and heading straight for the heart of the matter because they didn't have time to dance around the issue.
"I might have a better idea if I knew where 'here' was," he challenged. "What is this place? Where am I?" Where were his brothers?
The Other-Scott (Fake Scott? Hood-Masquerading-As-Scott?) locked gazes with him. What he was looking for, Scott didn't know, but he refused to cower away from his doppelgänger and met his steely, searching look with one of his own. Logic still insisted that the Hood, or at least the Hood's technology, had to be responsible, but he'd learnt to trust his gut long before he'd even heard of his father's dream of International Rescue and that was adamant that Kayo's miserable excuse for a family member had nothing to do with the man in front of him.
What it couldn't tell him was who the man was, aside from an imperfect clone of himself. The unusual technology surrounding them – alien, Alan might call it for lack of a more rational explanation – was another piece to the puzzle that wasn't slotting together.
Puzzles were more of John's thing, not his. There were many times his ginger brother had rescued the poor pieces from his hands as he tried to force them into the wrong places.
Why had John not made contact yet?
"Who are you?" he demanded when it became clear that the other man wasn't intending on answering his other questions. "Why am I here? Where are my brothers?"
"Brothers?" Other-Scott repeated, frowning deeply. "We found you alone."
"Found me?" Scott spat. "Where? Last place I remember was the securest part of my own home! There's no way you got near me without passing my brothers!" His brothers, sleeping soundly in the belief that they were safe in their own home. Even John had gone to sleep, secure on Five, but if they'd reached Thunderbird One's hangar they'd have reached the space elevator docking system. "So where. Are. My. Brothers?"
"You were in our home," Other-Scott bit back, hands briefly balling into fists before being forced to relax again. "Alone. Wherever your brothers are, it's not here." Scott didn't like the emphasis on brothers.
"Don't lie to me!" he roared, temper fraying. His brothers had to be with him, otherwise John would have made contact asking where he'd gone. Otherwise this man – and others beside him – had invaded their home and taken him whilst leaving his brothers but that made no sense. Why take only one member of International Rescue when you could have all five? Why take only one Tracy – even if it was the eldest, the one with the most access to all their assets – when you could take more for additional insurance?
They hadn't tied him down, and the wires hooking him up to the bizarre machines had long since lost their hold on him from his earlier movement. A rookie mistake. With years of Air Force training behind him, Scott launched himself at the other man.
Blue eyes widened just before a fist made contact with his cheek, and Other-Scott staggered backwards before catching his balance, his hand tenderly brushing over the injured area. The movement had put him to one side, no longer between Scott and the door, and Scott took full advantage of that. If this man wasn't going to admit where his brothers were, he'd find them himself.
It was his turn to receive a punch as he jumped towards the door, putting him off-course and allowing Other-Scott to block his way again. This time, his curiously wary look had changed to an angry one, and as they met in a flurry of blows Scott couldn't tell which of them moved first.
"Let. Me. At. My. Brothers," he spat between blows, gasping as an elbow caught him in the solar plexus just as Other-Scott doubled over from a fist to the gut.
"They're not, argh, here!" Other-Scott insisted, hooking their ankles together and bringing them tumbling to the floor, where they pushed and shoved at each other, trying to get the upper hand. Something fell off a table as Scott's back slammed into it, shattering into many glass fragments and dousing him with a cool liquid. Another bottle hit Other-Scott's shoulder on the way down, before smashing on the floor and adding to the mess.
They were equally matched, neither able to get the upper hand as they rolled around on the floor, fists flying, heads clashing, and elbows jabbing whatever fleshy body parts they could reach in all the chaos. Broken glass dug mercilessly into bare skin wherever it was visible, the liquid contents of the former bottles oozing through their clothes. Other-Scott's head slammed against the bed, but he barely paused before Scott found his own head colliding with a metal table, darkening his vision for a split second.
"What's going on here?" an unfamiliar voice demanded. Scott ignored it, and Other-Scott met his latest attacks with equal fervour. "Scott, stop!"
Scott had no intention of stopping. He didn't recognise the voice, but Other-Scott had flinched so he did, which meant they were working together.
Strong arms grabbed him, hauling him away from Other-Scott with a grunt, and he kicked out at the warm body restraining him. Other-Scott had been captured too, a shorter brown-haired man built like a tank firmly hooking him under the shoulders and frowning furiously as he fought to keep hold of Scott's doppelgänger, who was as determined to get free as Scott himself.
"BOYS!" the voice thundered right in his ear, no doubt belonging to the owner of the arms restraining him. "What is this nonsense all a- oof?" Scott threw his head back, clashing with what felt like a nose, from the way it gave.
"Where are my brothers?" His demand came out almost as a scream, all his frustration at the situation pouring out of him as at least two more hostiles made themselves apparent. Other-Scott was stopping short of causing any damage to his own captor in his bids for freedom, suggesting that while the man was breaking up the fight, he was still on Other-Scott's side.
"I told you!" Other-Scott shouted back at him. "They're not here! We only found you!"
"They must be here!" Scott insisted. "Don't lie to me!"
"E-nuff!" the man behind him joined in, the imperious tone ruined by the clear sounds of a broken nose. "Shedate im!"
Scott fought harder as a ginger man entered the room, looking at him with wide brown eyes before surveying the mess in front of him with trepidation. He picked his way across glass-strewn floor carefully, but Scott was more interested in Other-Scott, whose attempts to get free had reduced to a token effort as his attention was briefly stolen by the ginger man. He recognised that look of concern too well, far too used to seeing it in the mirror.
"Oh my!" a frail woman's voice sounded from the doorway. "Oh, what a mess. Jefferson, what are you doing to that poor young man?"
Jefferson. The name was so familiar it hurt, but at least he had a name for Other-Scott – or so he thought until the man holding him responded.
"He's quith ou o conthrol, muffer."
Unable to help himself, Scott tore his gaze away from Other-Scott, who had now stopped resisting capture entirely in favour of looking in the direction of the doorway almost sheepishly, to catch a glimpse of the man holding him. Silver-grey hair and a receding hairline weren't immediately familiar, however, and the hold he was in preventing him from seeing much more. He could, however, see the elderly lady who had interrupted the fight. Rosy cheeks, a slightly bent back and a quiver in her hands all pointed towards a particularly advanced age.
"Where are my brothers?" he asked again, reigning his voice in to an almost-level, if still intense, level.
"I told you-" Other-Scott started forwards again, only to be brought up short by the man still holding him tightly.
"Your brothers, dearie?" the old woman interrupted. "Oh, I'm afraid I don't know. Jefferson, why don't you help the young man find his brothers?"
"They're not here, Grandma," Other-Scott said, and Scott flared up again.
"Well then, dearie, it seems to me that instead of all this fighting, you should be looking to find out where they are," Other-Scott's grandmother pointed out. "I'm sure their absence is terribly distressing him. I know you'd be terribly distressed if your brothers were missing." She pottered towards him, the ginger-haired man sweeping back to her side and nudging broken glass out of the way with a foot before she could tread on any. "Jefferson, let him go. Are you hungry, dearie? I've got an apple pie that's just finished baking."
"Muffer!" the man holding him protested, but the woman was no longer paying her son any attention, bespectacled eyes homing in on Scott. He looked around the room; Other-Scott was still held by the brown-haired man, and the ginger was hovering awkwardly by the elderly lady but shooting him assessing looks. The grip on his arms was slackening, and it became clear that no-one wanted to fight with her in the midst, Scott himself included.
"Well, dearie?" the woman prompted, and he slid out of the other man's grasp. The instant he did so, a hand, just as frail and delicate as the rest of her, came to rest on his forearm. "If apple pie doesn't meet your fancy, I have an orange tart, or some banana bread. Oh, if none of those tickle you, I'm sure I can find something," she wittered as he found himself being coaxed from the room.
"Uh, apple pie would be… fine," he said haltingly. Behind him, he heard a noise of protest. "Thank you, er, Mrs..?"
"Oh dear, I didn't introduce myself." She sounded mortified at the omission. "I'm so sorry, dear. It's Mrs Tracy."
It shouldn't have bothered him. Tracy wasn't an uncommon name, for all that there was only one family famous for it. The elderly lady looked nothing like his grandmother – either of them, even if his recollections of his mother's mother were faded – but her grandson still looked like him, to the point he still didn't trust the other man, or indeed anyone in the house. In light of that, having his own surname thrown around startled him.
"Is there something wrong?" Mrs Tracy asked him. "Oh, you don't look well at all, dear. Let's sit you down." He found himself ushered into a seat as they reached what was clearly the kitchen. A young woman was already there, pulling the promised apple pie out of a bizarre contraption that vaguely resembled an old oven. "Tin-Tin, would you be a dear and fetch your father?" the elderly lady asked her. "This young man doesn't seem very well."
"But of course, Mrs Tracy." Tin-Tin had a slight lilting accent to her voice, somewhere south-east Asian if Scott had to guess. "I'll find him now." She placed the apple pie, which smelled absolutely heavenly to Scott, compared to his own grandmother's regular offerings, on the table and left the room.
"Eat up, dearie," Mrs Tracy insisted, placing a plate in front of him. "Help yourself to as much as you want."
The apple pie smelled good, and despite his misgivings at the entire situation, a homemade apple pie was far too tempting and he found himself tucking in to a healthy slice.
"What would you like to drink, dear?" she asked. "Tea, coffee? Oh, I have some juice somewhere, now where did I put it..?"
"Water is fine," he answered between mouthfuls.
"Oh, are you sure?" she queried. "It's no trouble at all."
"Perfectly," he replied, only to blink as a steaming cup of tea appeared in front of him.
"You called, Mrs Tracy?" An older man had entered the kitchen while he wasn't looking, an impressive and concerning feat considering Scott was still on edge about the entire situation. His accent was the same as Tin-Tin's, implying that this was her father.
"Oh, Kyrano," the woman greeted. "This young man, oh, silly me, I never asked for your name, dearie… Dearie?"
Scott barely heard her, the cup of tea he'd started to lift falling from startled fingers to smash onto the table, spilling the liquid everywhere.
Kyrano. Another familiar name, if not a familiar face. First, Other-Scott, who could have been his identical twin. Then, Mrs Tracy, a name he knew all too well even if she didn't look like his own grandmother. Now, Kyrano, another name albeit one whose owner he hadn't seen in too long, with a different face but the same intensity about him.
"Dearie?" Mrs Tracy asked again. "Oh, what a mess. He's as white as a sheet, Kyrano."
Something reminiscent of smelling salts wafted under his nose and he spluttered.
"You're bleeding, sir," the man said matter-of-factly. "Allow me."
Scott had forgotten about the broken bottles he'd been wrestling amongst with Other-Scott, but now the man had mentioned it, he could feel the sting of glass embedded in his arms. No permission was sought before a gentle yet firm hand wrapped around a glass-free section of his arm, holding it in place as a pair of tweezers were produced. He was no stranger to medical attention, and while he didn't know the man – Other-Kyrano, apparently, for all that he clearly wasn't English, and probably couldn't trump Scott in a fight – he did at least know the procedure for removing foreign bodies from open wounds and watched like a hawk as the man more or less followed the methods he would have expected.
"Please, drink your tea," Other-Kyrano asked once a nasty, stinging liquid – disinfectant was horrible stuff and Scott would never like it – had been applied and bandages carefully wrapped around the worst of the wounds. "You might find it helpful." A second cup of tea replaced the smashed remains of the old one, as Other-Kyrano efficiently cleaned up the mess.
How was tea supposed to help? Lady Penelope might insist as such sometimes, but Scott would much rather a strong coffee chock full of caffeine. Still, Mrs Tracy was looking at him with a worried look on his face, and Grandma would murder him for defying or otherwise offending an elderly lady who had done him no harm. He cautiously pulled the cup closer to him, and was startled to discover it wasn't an 'Assam Blend', or whatever other fancy teas Lady Penelope liked to serve up. It was herbal, and surprisingly delicious, he discovered after his first tentative sip.
"Kyrano serves wonderful tea," Mrs Tracy told him, sitting down across the table from him. She had her own cup of steaming liquid in front of her, and sipped at it delicately. "Now, dear, I'm afraid I didn't catch your name?" Scott paused, taking another tentative sip of the tea to buy himself another moment to think. Should he give them his name? He didn't know what they already knew. Was it worth a lie? No, he'd never be able to keep it up.
"Scott," he admitted.
"Oh my," Mrs Tracy said. "What a coincidence. That's the name of my eldest grandson." Scott's gut churned unpleasantly, and he put the cup down before he dropped that one, too. "Oh, you even look the same. Isn't that strange?"
Strange was one word to describe what was going on. Suspicious was another.
"You're the fella that punched Scott?" A young man barged into the room. He had pale blond hair and light blue eyes that should have made him attractive, except he seemed to have a permanent frown etched into his face. "What gave you the right?" Scott matched his glare with one of his own as the young man – barely an adult at all, if he had to guess an age – stormed up to him.
"Alan!" Tin-Tin was there, resting a hand on his arm. "Please, calm yourself."
Another familiar name, and now that he'd heard it Scott found himself instantly drawing parallels between the man and his youngest brother. There must have been at least five years between them, but Scott could see Alan looking like that man in a few years, although hopefully without the frown.
"But, Tin-Tin!" Other-Alan protested. "Scott's face is bruised. I can't just let that go!" He even had the same personality, a rigid sense of right and wrong with little ability to see the other person's side, and a reluctance to acknowledge that black and white was joined by a large span of grey.
"Your brother can fight his own battles, Alan," Tin-Tin soothed. "I'm sure it was all just a misunderstanding."
"What about Dad's nose?" Other-Alan demanded. "You can't expect me to…"
Scott tuned out the argument at that. Dad. He tried not to be a petty person, but there were times when he couldn't quite prevent envy bubbling up when he heard other people taking about their Dads, taking them for granted as though they'd always be there. Over the years he'd got better at smothering it, but this was a man named Alan, with a brother named Scott, and a grandmother called Mrs Tracy, and they had their Dad.
He'd broken their Dad's nose when he'd tried to stop him attacking one of his sons. If that had happened to his Dad – if Dad was still around to break up fights on their behalf, no matter how unwelcome the gesture would have been in the moment – he'd be fuming, too. He wasn't going to apologise though. Not now, when he didn't know where he was, who he was with, or where his brothers were. He didn't even know what these people planned to do with him, regardless of whether or not his presence in their home was intentional on their behalf.
"Leave it, Alan." The blond man's tirade was cut off by none other than Other-Scott – now confirmed to actually be a Scott himself – as he walked into the room. "Is there any apple pie left, Grandma?"
"Oh, yes, dear," Mrs Tracy assured him. "Take a seat and I'll bring some over."
"Thanks," Other-Scott said, pulling up a chair a couple away from Scott. His face was bruised, as Other-Alan had said, a beautiful darkening along his cheekbone and narrowly missing his eye. Other-Kyrano set a cup of tea in front of him, which he accepted gratefully and drank without hesitation.
"But, Scott!" Other-Alan complained, and his brother sighed.
"That's enough, Alan," he said, tearing into the plate of apple pie his grandmother placed in front of him. "Leave it."
Other-Alan caved, albeit with obvious bad grace, and stalked out from the room. Scott watched him go. Part of him was glad that the younger man was being openly hostile – at least he knew where, exactly, he stood with him. Other-Scott was less clear, patched up from their scuffle and now sat at the same table, devouring his grandmother's apple pie. Suspicious glances remained, but there was no open hostility.
The door opened again, and Other-Alan re-entered followed by the two young men from the infirmary, and-
A second teacup smashed onto the table.
"Oh dear!" Mrs Tracy cried, hurrying over to him. Other-Kyrano quickly swept up the remains as she took hold of his hand. "Scott, dear, are you alright?"
"Scott?" one of the men asked. He thought it might have been Other-Scott.
"Oh, Jeff, are you sure there's nothing wrong with him?" Mrs Tracy was asking. "This is the second turn he's had in as many minutes! Oh, look at him, he's gone as white as a sheet again, Kyrano."
Scott barely heard them. The man who had just entered the room had the obvious signs of a broken nose, identifying him as Other-Alan's Dad. He also had salt and pepper hair, more salt than pepper, and a receding hairline. Steel eyes fixed on him sharply, hard and unforgiving, and a five o'clock shadow did nothing to hide the dimples in his cheeks. This was the same man that had restrained him, and while a glimpse in his periphery hadn't been enough to cause recognition, now that Scott could see him properly he looked like Dad – an older version of Dad, but then he hadn't seen Dad since he was nineteen. No doubt, if Dad was still with them, he'd look very similar to the man in front of him.
This had gone beyond simple words like weird and suspicious. Impossible sounded more like it.
"His medical results all came back clear, Grandma," the brown-haired man from the infirmary assured her, squatting down in front of him and shining a penlight into his eyes. He recoiled from the bright light, tearing his gaze away from Not-Dad – it couldn't be Dad, Dad was gone – to frown at him.
"Did you call him Scott?" the ginger man asked, walking over to the table and slotting himself in a chair between him and Other-Scott.
"That is my name," he said before anyone else could speak up. A hush fell over the room, broken by Other-Kyrano setting a third cup of tea in front of him.
"Drink," the man said. "It will help."
"Your name is Scott?" Other-Alan demanded. "But-"
"That's enough, Alan," Not-Dad interrupted. The blond frowned, but obeyed. "Scott, is it?"
"That's what I said," Scott retorted, taking a sip of the fresh drink. As Other-Kyrano said, it did help. Somehow.
"Scott..?" Not-Dad trailed off expectantly. Surrounded by too many familiar names, Scott decided against answering. He took a longer drink, ignoring the patriarch of the family in favour of assessing the rest of the room. Other-Alan and Other-Scott he already had some measure of, the former more so than the latter. Mrs Tracy was a kind enough lady, and Tin-Tin seemed of a similar temperament. Other-Kyrano was difficult to read, but his focus was the two men whose names he had yet to hear.
The ginger noticed his scrutiny, returning it in kind. There was something familiar about him, but Scott batted away the notion. He was simply off-balance at the number of familiar names and faces already – that was no reason to start looking for more connections where there were none. No matter now much the warm brown eyes of the two as-yet unnamed men reminded him of two of his brothers.
Not-Dad bristled when it became apparent that he wouldn't give his name.
"I'd like to know, who, exactly, is trespassing in my home," he said. Clearly the man was used to being obeyed.
"I'd like to know how, exactly, I got here, and where my family are," he retorted.
"You don't know how you got here?" the brown-haired man asked, surprised.
"Virgil," Not-Dad warned. The third teacup was spared the fate of the previous two purely by being on the table when Scott's grip slacked.
"No," he said firmly, powering through the unpleasant sensation dousing him again before Mrs Tracy commented on another 'turn'. "I don't. I don't know where 'here' is, either."
"But how could you get here without knowing?" the newly dubbed Other-Virgil asked. "None of us brought you here."
Scott didn't bother responding, draining the cup of tea before any more unpleasant surprises could befall it and standing up.
"Thanks for the tea," he said to Other-Kyrano, "and the apple pie," he continued to Mrs Tracy, ignoring Not-Dad as he pushed the chair under the table.
"Dear, are you sure you're alright?" Mrs Tracy fussed. He wasn't, but he didn't tell her that. Instead he gave a short nod before choosing a door at random and walking through it, ignoring a protest from Not-Dad.
A corridor greeted him, with a neat row of doors on one side and a branch off to the left leading to who knew what.
"Now look here." A hand clapped down on his shoulder, and he was halfway to removing it forcibly before placing the voice. Having already broken Not-Dad's nose, thereby earning the wrath of at least one member of the family, it was probably not a good idea to injure the man further. It didn't stop him shrugging him off, however. "I don't want you walking around our home unsupervised, young man."
"Then supervise me," he retorted.
"I intend to." A hand returned to his shoulder – lightly, this time, Not-Dad clearly learning his lesson – and steered him towards what now looked a lot like an elevator from those old, vintage films Grandma occasionally put on even though they were from before her time, or so she claimed. Neither he nor any of his brothers were brave enough to dispute it. "Gordon, I want everyone in the lounge. Let's start from the beginning."
"Yes, Father," the ginger man said – Scott hadn't even noticed him behind Not-Dad – and tried very hard not to react to the name, even though the situation had flown past anything anyone could classify as a coincidence at this point. Scott, Virgil, Gordon, Alan… all they were missing was a John.
Not-Dad gestured for him to enter the elevator, ignoring what seemed to be a perfectly serviceable flight of stairs, and he did so with trepidation, watching metal shutters slide across sharply before a jerk beneath their feet had them rising.
"Jeff Tracy," Not-Dad said suddenly. Scott glanced at him as the elevator stopped moving and the metal shutters opened with a clatter. "Call me Mr Tracy." His cool, unpersonable approach was nothing like how Scott remembered Dad, and that helped, a little. He didn't intend on calling him anything, though. Not until he knew why there was a clone of his father, and of himself, in this strange house.
Well, last chapter got some fun reactions. We're clearing some things up a bit now, perhaps. The goal is weekly-ish updates on this fic, but we'll see what uni has to say about that. For now I do have this written up to chapter 7, so that's a few more weeks of updates ready to go.
Thanks for reading!
Tsari