Disclaimer: I don't own Thunderbirds.
Apparently FFN hated me last weekend and made a bunch of my updates inaccessible... We'll see if this works now? If it does, I have a #fluffember backlog that needs posting, too...
Scott was on the slippery slope towards a fourth loss – with no wins – when the house trembled slightly. The unmistakable roar of a jet engine in close proximity told him what the cause of it was, and he didn't need Other-Gordon to tell him it was Thunderbird One. She might not be his Thunderbird One, and her engine might make a different noise, no doubt due to different technology, but Scott had always had an ear for plane engines. Having already heard it once, the cry of this universe's Thunderbird One was instantly recognisable.
"Do you want to finish up first or call it here?" Other-Gordon asked, either correctly assuming that Scott had every intention of seeing his counterpart now he was back, or simply wanting to attend the debrief himself.
"How long do post-flight checks take here?" he replied, eyeing the board with a brain only half concentrating on the game now and trying to work out if he could do anything other than be defeated before Other-Scott finished said checks and emerged from the hangar.
"Scott'll be out in five minutes, assuming nothing went wrong on the mission," Other-Gordon told him, glancing down at his watch. "They weren't gone long, so it probably all went smoothly."
"Well I'm not going to get this turned around in five minutes," he sighed, gesturing at the board, "so we might as well call it." Other-Gordon laughed.
"You're right about that," he agreed. "You're only two moves away from defeat anyway." Scott could see that, and knocked his King over to save himself the bother. Other-Gordon laughed again, and swept the pieces up, packing them away before standing. "Let's see what my brothers had to deal with this time," he commented, with barely a hint of bitterness to betray the fact he'd have liked to be on it rather than stuck at home waiting. Scott pulled himself up out of the comfortable chair he'd got used to sitting in for the past couple of hours.
"Lead the way."
They got as far as the door before Other-Gordon stopped, looking up at him with a serious expression he hadn't seen on his face since before they started playing chess.
"Before we do," he started; Scott instinctively straightened at the tone. "Knowing you – well, Scott, and assuming it's something else you two share – you're no doubt going to be analysing and second-guessing everything the fellas did out on the rescue. Do me a favour and keep it to yourself."
Scott blinked. "What?"
Other-Gordon didn't budge, arms crossed. "Your universe and ours have different technology; we've all realised that. It's likely that means you'd make different calls to us, based on what you'd have at your disposal if you were with your own International Rescue. John and Brains, hell maybe Scott and Virgil, too, will be curious at the differences, but save it until you're asked. The debrief isn't a place for hypotheticals based on other-universe technology and I doubt you'd appreciate it if roles were reversed and it was our Scott butting in on your debriefs."
Scott sighed. "You have a point," he admitted. Keeping his mouth shut when he had an opinion was not something he was particularly well-practiced in, but Other-Gordon was right. He'd be fuming if someone who knew nothing about International Rescue's capabilities interrupted his own debriefs. The idea that he didn't know International Rescue's capabilities rankled, but he remembered Other-John's rundown of the situation earlier and how many terms had been unfamiliar to him. Hell, they even had different names for something as fundamental as Thunderbird Two's modules. He sighed again, running a hand down his face, to a raised eyebrow from Other-Gordon.
"Everything alright?" the other man asked, and he shrugged.
"You do realise I'm not used to not being in charge?" he asked rhetorically, prompting a laugh from the ginger.
"I had noticed," he commented dryly. "Dad's still going to have a fit if you walk in looking like that, and Scott's going to want to know what you think you're doing with his shirt."
"I'm wearing it," Scott shrugged.
"Badly," Other-Gordon retorted, turning away and opening the door, leading the way back towards the lounge – and Not-Dad. Scott tried not to think about the fact he'd soon be in the older man's presence again.
"It's more comfortable this way," he bit back instead, determined to get the last word.
"It looks sloppy." Other-Gordon clearly didn't feel like letting him have it.
"Maybe I don't like looking like a pampered son of a billionaire." Two could play at that game.
"That's what you are, so own it."
"Actually, I'm the billionaire," Scott pointed out, the one result of Dad's crash he'd finally found himself comfortable with, if only through necessity and the fact that it was how International Rescue could still operate. "I can look how I want."
Other-Gordon froze for a fraction of a second before continuing the walk through the villa, a barely-there stumble that told Scott he hadn't realised that aspect.
"Touché," he conceded after a moment. "But I don't think that'll wash with either of them." Scott shrugged.
"I stopped caring what other people thought a long time ago," he pointed out. It was only half a lie – he cared about the opinions of his brothers and closest friends. He didn't care about the rest of the world's opinions.
Or another universe's.
Other-Gordon chuckled again, jogging up the stairs with Scott hot on his heels before heading for the lounge. Scott paused as they crossed the threshold, seeing Tin-Tin already there, but he refused to baulk. Not-Dad was sat behind the desk, looking every inch the man in charge, and he dragged his feet into the room, finding a seat on the edge of the depressed circle and sprawling out on it as though he was at home.
As it happened, his entrance was timed perfectly. Just as Not-Dad caught sight of him, face drawing into a look of disapproval and mouth opening to dish it out in what would no doubt be a tongue lashing, the section of wall housing the two lamps swung around, revealing Other-Scott.
"I'm back, Dad," he greeted, a split second before he, too, caught sight of Scott and his new attire. "Hey, what are you wearing?"
"Unless you're in the habit of keeping anyone else's clothes in your closet, your clothes," Scott shrugged, eyeing what the other man was wearing. Blue rollneck, checkered blue cardigan and dark brown slacks.
Fashion was definitely different in this universe.
"You look disgraceful," Not-Dad cut in, but he didn't look over at him. Their voices were different, so as long as he didn't look at him, the scolding didn't hurt so much. "Do up that shirt properly." Scott ignored him, and Other-Gordon's sing-song I told you so.
Other-Scott was less ignorable, striding up to him and yanking sharply on the sleeve cuffs to unroll them.
"Don't wreck my clothes," he complained. "You'll stretch the sleeves doing that." Scott rolled his eyes and tugged his arms back. "Dad, someone needs to get him some new clothes; he can't keep wearing mine."
"Or the same underpants because he refuses to wear yours," Other-Gordon cut in.
"Gordon, Tin-Tin's present!" Not-Dad snapped, although the young woman was tittering quietly and didn't seem at all mortified. "We'll deal with the clothing situation once debrief is over. In the meantime, wear my son's clothes properly, young man."
Scott tugged at the sleeves, smoothing them out again at Other-Scott's request but not doing up any buttons.
"Are you always this insolent?" Not-Dad demanded when he realised Scott wasn't obeying him. "What does it take to get some respect in my own house?"
Hiding his reluctance, Scott turned his head to meet his eyes. Not-Dad's eyes were still a hard steely grey; both Other-John and Other-Gordon had mentioned that the two of them clashing was inevitable, and Scott could tell that they were right. He should defer to the other man – it was his home, and he was the one in charge of the people that could get him home – but even considering doing so made his heart rebel violently.
He hadn't protected his family and his father's legacy for the past eight years by backing down, and he wasn't about to start now.
"I respect people who earn it," he said pointedly. "You don't get a free pass just because you're rich and powerful; I've rescued too many rich and powerful people from their own stupidity for that." Francois Lemaire came to mind. The reasoning behind birthday parties in the Mariana Trench and flying into a comet's coma still boggled him.
Not-Dad looked taken aback, as though the idea of earning respect was foreign to him. Or maybe it was the fact that he admittedly looked just like the man's eldest son, so maybe hearing that from him was a shock to the system.
"What about International Rescue?" the man asked, and Scott shrugged.
"What about it?"
"Does that not get your respect?"
"I can respect what an organisation does without respecting the man behind it," he pointed out, coolly. "The fact that you're International Rescue tells me that you'll do everything you can to get me home, and I respect that."
"So you don't respect us," Not-Dad said flatly, a hint of anger in his tone, and Scott shrugged.
"I don't know you," he reminded the room at large. "You're an alternate universe version of my family, and I'm still working out what that means. I trust you to help me, but respect? I don't know you well enough for that."
"He's got a point, Dad," Other-Scott said, perching on the arm of the neighbouring chair. The support was unexpected, but welcome. "Just because he looks like me doesn't mean he is me."
"You're pretty similar," Other-Gordon piped up, and Scott rolled his eyes.
"That's not what you said earlier," he reminded him. Other-Gordon simply shrugged.
"I'm working with more information now."
"What information?" Not-Dad demanded, and Scott sent the ginger a glare, realising too late that the younger man had never agreed not to share their conversation in the hangar. Other-Gordon was too sharp for his liking. Was his Gordon going to end up that difficult to wrangle in four years, or was it just because despite appearances he wasn't Other-Gordon's brother?
"I spent the last three hours playing chess against him," Other-Gordon informed the room. To his surprise, Other-Scott laughed.
"You couldn't beat him either? Gordon's a demon when it comes to chess."
"I can't say I expected to win," Scott admitted. "That's a fact in both universes." Other-Gordon preened, and Not-Dad sat back in his desk chair, clearly deciding to let them talk without his intervention.
That act felt a little bit more like Dad, and Scott looked away, the never-healed hole in his heart throbbing painfully. Other-Gordon sent him a sharp look, but said nothing. Other-Scott watched the silent exchange with confusion; Scott didn't plan on enlightening him, even if he was probably drawing his own conclusions.
Scott looked around as Other-Gordon carried the conversation, talking a mile a minute about chess with – or rather, at – his eldest brother, who slumped off of the arm of the chair he was perching on to sit in it properly. Scott could relate to the post-mission exhaustion, and felt a stab of jealousy that as soon as debrief was over, Other-Scott didn't have to worry about it anymore. Not-Dad would take it all from there.
No wonder he wasn't going grey yet.
The photos on the wall had changed. Gone were the five relaxing young men, lounging around in their civvies. Instead, there were photos of the same five young men all wearing IR blue and coloured sashes, posed just like their own portraits at home. He couldn't believe they still wore those damn hats, then again, that was something he'd scrapped after Dad's crash. Not-Dad clearly liked the things enough to still keep them, although he wondered if they really wore them all the time.
Their baldrics, although they looked more like sashes than baldrics, matched the colours Other-Scott had rattled off earlier – lilac for Other-John, yellow for Other-Virgil, orange for Other-Gordon and white for Other-Alan. Other-Scott himself had blue, and Scott wondered how much of a say they'd had in their colours. At home, they matched their Thunderbirds, but Thunderbird One here was still the same colour scheme.
"Operation Cover-Up was in effect last time you were in here," Other-Gordon commented. "If you're wondering why the pictures are different." He turned back to look at him and discovered the room was staring at him. Of course they were.
"Operation Cover-Up?" he asked, frowning. "What's that?"
Other-Scott narrowed his eyes, but it was Not-Dad that replied, frowning back at him in return.
"Surely you have one of your own?" he inquired. "The identity of International Rescue must be kept secret, after all."
Scott had almost forgotten about that; the first one of Dad's rules to fly out of the window, not that he'd been able to do anything about it.
"I wish," he muttered. While having their identities was useful at times, being dogged and recognised at a glance whenever they were out in public – and unable to let visitors onto the island without extensive background checks because otherwise they'd go snooping – was beyond tiring. Even their location wasn't as hidden as he'd like, especially not now the GDF knew it – Colonel Casey promised it was a high level clearance secret, but that didn't change the fact there were people in the GDF that knew.
"Are you saying it's not a secret in your universe?" Not-Dad demanded, and Scott shrugged.
"The world's not stupid." He slumped back in his chair, hyper aware that everyone in the room was watching him with varying levels of interest and disbelief. "Billionaire ex-Astronaut Jeff Tracy goes missing the exact same time the Commander of IR does. Two and two makes four. Not even John and Lady P could cover that up." Especially not with the Hood leaking the information left, right and centre before going underground, as though killing his Dad wasn't enough damage. "Best we've got is that most of the world don't know where we live."
"How are you still operating?" Other-Scott asked, beating his father to it by barely a second, judging by Not-Dad's opened mouth. "Aren't people trying to steal the technology?"
Scott groaned. "All the damn time. Island's on permanent lockdown – no-one's allowed on or off without our security's approval. The GDF-" Other-John hadn't known what that was "-the world military suffers us because we're better at saving people than them and they know it. Our godmother being a Colonel helps a lot." He ran a hand over his face again, feeling drained just thinking about the mess he had to deal with daily to keep IR running.
How would they manage without him? Would the GDF force them to shut down, or would John or Virgil step up? How far did Colonel Casey's reach go; could she still keep them out of trouble with the GDF?
"Scott?" It was Other-Gordon that spoke, but when he pulled his hand away from his face it was Not-Dad he looked at.
"It's possible to operate when the world knows who you are, but it's a damn headache."
"Language!" the man barked. "There are women present." Scott rolled his eyes, under no illusions that Tin-Tin and Mrs Tracy hadn't heard worse.
"Gee, so that's why you're going grey," Other-Gordon chipped in, and Scott glowered at him half-heartedly. "And here I was thinking I was going to need to see if Scott was hiding some dye somewhere."
"Gordon," Other-Scott growled. The ginger put his hands up.
"Just saying; it seemed suspicious that he's going grey and you're not."
"Why would I be going grey already?" Other-Scott demanded. "I'm thirty."
"And he's twenty-seven, so that argument doesn't hold any water, old chap," Other-Gordon retorted.
"Wait, what?" All eyes fell on Scott again, and he sent another withering glance Other-Gordon's way. The ginger wasn't saying anything he'd explicitly wanted not said, but he was definitely skirting around dangerously close to the edge. "It's not twenty-sixty-five where you're from?" Other-Scott continued, and Scott froze.
"Twenty-what?" he asked. That… didn't make sense. That didn't make sense at all. He'd be thirty-two in 2065, not thirty. Then again, the age gaps between Virgil, Gordon and Alan were also different between the two universes, so maybe he shouldn't be surprised.
"I take it that's a no?" Other-Scott replied, and he shrugged.
"Twenty-sixty."
"That's weird."
"Tell me about it," Scott groaned. "I need to tell your Brains this stuff but apparently I'm not allowed to disturb him."
"What 'stuff'?" Tin-Tin asked, inserting herself in the conversation. "Have you worked anything out?"
"Scott and I were playing spot the difference earlier," Other-Gordon chipped in. "Seems there's a few more differences than we thought."
"Like different dates of birth," Other-Scott noted. "I was twenty-five in twenty-sixty, not twenty-seven. Is your birthday April fourth?"
Scott nodded, relieved that at least one thing was the same.
"Different age gaps, too," Other-Gordon pointed out.
"Your brothers are closer in age?" Not-Dad asked. "It can't be the opposite, or you'd be too young to operate." Scott winced; the topic was getting too close to areas he didn't want it, and unlike Other-Gordon, Not-Dad and probably Other-Scott wouldn't let the matter of Alan's age drop. "They're not?" Not-Dad sounded startled, and he realised the wince had given him away. "But-"
He stood up suddenly.
"Let me know when you're debriefing," he said, and walked out. Dammit all; he'd said he wouldn't run away, and he knew he couldn't keep Alan's age from Not-Dad and Other-Scott forever, but he wasn't ready to see the disapproval on Not-Dad's face. Not when it was so like Dad's.
"Scott!" It was a woman's voice – Tin-Tin's, to be precise, and he reluctantly turned to see the younger woman following him hurriedly. With the topic of ages on his mind, he realised she was probably a similar age to Kayo, not older like the Tracy family seemed to be. Something else that made no sense.
"What is it?" he asked her as she came to a stop in front of her. No-one else emerged from the lounge; whether they were talking about him, or had decided to entrust him to Tin-Tin, he didn't know.
"I want to hear about these differences," she said firmly. "Brains is busy with the data he already has, but I'm not." She put a hand on his arm and directed him towards the stairs.
"What do you mean?" he asked, following her with the reminder that she was this universe's Kayo stuck in his mind. Just because she didn't look as dangerous, didn't mean she wasn't.
"You recognised my father's name, but not mine," she observed. "Let's start at the beginning; good day, it's very nice to meet you. My name is Tin-Tin Kyrano and my primary role on the island is as Brains' assistant."
That was different, but the words 'Brains' assistant' stuck out like a lifeline. He smiled at her and stuck out his hand. "Good day, and it's very nice to meet you. The name's Scott Tracy and in my universe I'm the commander of International Rescue." She looked at his hand for a moment before grasping it. Her grip was light but firm and he knew his initial impressions had been correct – she was not a woman to be crossed.
If she could help get him home, he had no intentions of crossing her.
"Well, now that we're introduced," she smiled, guiding him back towards the infirmary but stopping in front of a different door, pushing it open to reveal a homely sitting area, "perhaps we should talk about those differences Brains needs to know about. Come in; we still have fifteen minutes before Thunderbird Two gets back, and the boys won't be ready for debrief for another fifteen after that."
It was only after he entered that he saw the king-sized bed, surrounded with drapes, in an alcove of the room and realised it must be her bedroom.
"Take a seat," she invited, gesturing to a plush loveseat. "Would you like something to drink?"
"If you have coffee that would be amazing," he admitted, and she laughed.
"I think the American men on this island would all stop functioning if we didn't have coffee," she smiled, heading for a coffee press in the corner of the room. Scott wondered why that was there when the kitchen was just down the hall. "How do you take it?"
"However I can get it," Scott admitted. "But ideally a splash of milk and a sugar."
"Just like our Scott," she commented. "How you men live off so much caffeine, I will never understand. Your blood must be more coffee than blood at this rate."
Scott smiled dryly. "Something like that."
"I must confess I'm curious – what am I like in your universe?" she asked as she set the water to boil. "You don't look at me like you do the boys."
"Kayo – Tanusha, but we call her Kayo after she put me down in a sparring session – is… different to you," Scott admitted. "She's a tomboy, our head of security after Kyrano… left. Grew up with us as a sister, jumps into a fight first chance she gets. I have to hold her back more than all of my brothers combined."
Kayo would be going ballistic that he vanished right under her nose, even though she hadn't been on the island at the time. He hoped she wouldn't follow in Kyrano's footsteps and vanish after 'failing' him. His brothers still needed her, whatever else happened.
Tin-Tin made a noise of surprise. "I assumed she must have been different, but that is very different," she observed. The kettle whistled, steam pouring out of it, and she decanted the contents into the coffee press. "She gets into fights? Whatever do people think of that?"
"Kayo doesn't care," Scott shrugged. "She usually wins them, anyway."
"That's not particularly ladylike," Tin-Tin observed, although she didn't sound particularly scandalised about it. "Is that common in your universe? You mentioned your godmother's a Colonel in the military..?"
Scott thought to how Not-Dad had been so strict on language in front of her, and frowned.
"Are women generally treated like they're made of glass here, or is that just him?" he asked. "Grandma, Kayo and Lady P would have all had something to say if someone specifically cleaned up their language in front of them because they're female."
"As a general rule they think we're delicate flowers, yes," Tin-Tin confirmed, carrying a tray with two cups on it over to the table. One was clearly his coffee, while the other looked like another herbal tea. "Your attitude is quite refreshing, although when Mr Tracy isn't around the boys lose the gentlemanly airs a little."
"When you live with a sister who can kick your ass seven ways to Sunday and a Grandma with a sharp tongue you learn women aren't made of glass pretty damn quick," Scott shrugged.
"I suppose you would," she agreed, pulling out a notebook and pencil. "That seems like quite the incentive, but while you're here, at least try to pretend you think we're made of glass." She winked. "It somewhat ruins the deception if a man sees through it."
That was a very Lady Penelope response, and Scott made a mental note of that.
"I'll see what I can do," he agreed, before looking pointedly at the notebook. "You had questions?"
"Those differences Gordon alluded to," she confirmed. "I'll write them down and give them to Brains to look at once he's finished with the information he currently has." Scott nodded his head and began to talk about the differences he and Other-Gordon had realised earlier.
The different age gaps – Tin-Tin let out a small gasp when she found out Alan was only fifteen, but didn't comment, much to his relief – and the different years of birth had already been somewhat covered in the lounge, but he also mentioned the differences in appearance, describing them as best he could and failing utterly at anything past "John's hair is ginger, Virgil's is black, Gordon's is blond, and they're all kinda younger-looking". His observation of different fashions, their earlier discussion on perception of women, and even an attempt into the technological differences also made their way into Tin-Tin's rapidly filling notebook. At some point they heard the sound of a rumbling engine, deeper than Thunderbird One's, and he recognised it as this universe's Thunderbird Two. Tin-Tin barely reacted, only mentioning off-handedly that they had about fifteen minutes left before continuing their conversation.
She steered clear of asking any questions about what had happened to his Dad, which he appreciated. That wound had been rubbed raw more than enough for one day, what with his initial outburst, Other-John's quiet probing and Other-Gordon's outright interrogation. She did, however, manage to steer the conversation towards his grandmother, and almost fell out of her chair when she discovered Sally Tracy couldn't cook.
"However do you boys keep yourselves fed?" she demanded. "If it's not Mrs Tracy, my father, or Kayo?"
Scott shrugged. "Take-out or snatching time to cook between missions," he admitted. "One good thing about the world knowing we're IR is that if I use Thunderbird One, take-out's still hot by the time I get it back." She laughed at that for a moment before turning serious again.
"But you boys must have a balanced diet," she worried. "There's no way you can keep up with the physical demands of International Rescue without one."
"We manage," he assured her. "When John's home we lock him in the kitchen; he's by far the best cook out of the five of us." That elicited another laugh, although she looked halfway cross with herself for it. "We can all cook at least enough to survive." She didn't look entirely convinced, but with an entire universe between them, there wasn't much she could do about it and the topic reluctantly got dropped.
"This is a lot of differences," she said instead, looking down at her pages and pages of small, scrawling handwriting. Scott could barely read it, but it had also been a long time since he'd had to read anything handwritten that wasn't his own writing – and even that was unusual. Why handwrite when you had computers to do that for you? "Most of them are small enough to work around while you're here, but the differing years suggest your universe is five years younger than ours, and I'm not sure if there's any significance about the different years of birth. That's something Brains or John might understand better."
He nodded his understanding, his chest feeling lighter now he felt like they were getting somewhere. Baby steps to be sure, and Other-John's gentle reminder that it could take years still rang in his ears, but progress was progress.
"Now, it's about time for the debrief to start," she said, checking her own watch. Scott did the same, but the analogue dial taunted him, reminding him that he needed to learn to read it sooner rather than later – although that meant finding someone to teach him. "Alan and Virgil should be all cleaned up by now."
Scott drained the remains of his coffee and stood up, empty cup in hand.
"Oh, leave the cup on the table," Tin-Tin told him. "I'll clean it up later."
"If you're sure," he said dubiously – Grandma would have his hide for leaving dirty crockery anywhere that wasn't the kitchen, and even then it was expected to be cleaned immediately. Rescues were the only permissible excuse to do otherwise.
"Perfectly," she assured him, hand once again on his arm. "Come on, let's go hear about what the boys did today." With one last glance at the cup, and noticing that Tin-Tin had picked up her notebook, he let the young woman nudge him out of the room and headed for the stairs up to the lounge again.
There's a lot in this chapter - more compare and contrast, yay! - but the bit I want to mention specifically is one of the major society differences between TOS and TAG, which stems entirely from the 50 years between writing - sexism. I've noticed that a lot of TOS-based fics tend to shift away from or gloss over that, because that's just how it was in the 60s when TOS was written and there's no need to honour it (past the Alan/Tin-Tin spats) in modern fanfic.
Normally, I'd agree, but as already mentioned, I'm playing compare and contrast, and quite frankly the sexism was too tempting to pass up. Now, that does not mean we'll have City of Fire-esque "crazy woman driver" in the fic because that was writer-sexism, not in-universe, and I'm not about that. Perceptions of women as delicate flowers who are supposed to be seen and not heard by the male [TOS] cast, though? We are definitely playing with that, so consider this a warning. I could go into an entire essay on this, but you're not here for that, you're here to see it all through TAG!Scott's eyes, so I'll leave it be for now.
Thanks for reading!
Tsari