Disclaimer: I don't own Thunderbirds.
"Tin-Tin!" Other-Alan was just emerging from what Scott vaguely recalled was his bedroom when they reached the landing, wearing an unbuttoned striped yellow shirt over a white rollneck. "Oh, it's you." Scott found himself on the receiving end of a glower from bright blue eyes, an expression his own Alan would never throw his way. He met it passively, not rising to the bait. "What are you doing with Tin-Tin?"
"Oh, we were just having a chat, Alan," she assured him before Scott could answer. "Just some research for Brains."
"Anything useful?" Other-Virgil emerged from further down the corridor, wearing some brown and yellow shirt and waistcoat combination and effectively shutting up Other-Alan before he could come up with another complaint. Did Other-Alan do anything except complain?
"I'm sure it will be," she said. "But we should go and see your father; it's time for the debrief and it wouldn't do to keep him waiting."
"You're right, Tin-Tin," Other-Virgil agreed. "We can talk about this later." He walked through the doorway and Scott followed, to a scandalised noise from Other-Alan.
"You don't mean he's involved in the debrief?" the young man demanded. "What's he got to do with any of this?"
"Alan!" Tin-Tin chided. Scott chose to ignore him. Other-Alan had made his opinions clear and he wasn't particularly interested in putting in the effort to change his mind. He'd do it of his own accord or not at all. Other-Scott and Other-Gordon were where he'd left them, and he reclaimed his earlier chair, leaning back and ignoring the way Not-Dad zeroed in on his still-undone top buttons with a disapproving frown. In the corner, Other-John's picture had been replaced with a video screen showing the man in real-time, judging by the way he was moving around.
Compared to his John's hologram always materialising in the room, as though he was physically there, a simple screen on the wall made him seem excluded and more or less forgotten. That didn't sit well with Scott, who thanks to EOS' appearance was well aware how lonely it was to be stuck up on Thunderbird Five without any other company, even for someone as allergic to socialising as John. No-one had made any mention of an EOS or equivalent so far, and he wondered if the differing technology meant she didn't exist.
He hadn't seen any sign of MAX, either.
"Good, you're all here," Not-Dad said, looking up from his desk as the others found seats.
"Dad, we can't seriously be having a debrief with him in the room?" Other-Alan demanded.
"Alan," Other-Scott interjected before Not-Dad could reply. "If he wants to be here, he can."
"Scott, how do we know we can even trust him? Where's our proof he knows anything about International Rescue?" the blond demanded.
"Did you pay any attention to the clothes he arrived in, Alan?" Other-John asked, and the younger man frowned heavily.
"What's that got to do with anything?" he snapped defensively.
"I'll be honest, I don't think any of us paid much attention to his clothes," Other-Virgil admitted. "What are you referring to, John?"
Scott realised what was coming and was already on his feet by the time the space monitor looked at him. The badge on his shoulder wasn't obvious if they weren't looking for it.
"See for yourself," he said, striding out of the room to a hey from the irritable young man. One thing was for sure – Alan was not growing up to be that argumentative as an adult. He didn't think he'd be able to stand it. Locating his uniform in the guest room that was currently his, and leaving everything except the flight suit in the closest where he'd stashed it, he strode back to the lounge and tossed it at Other-Alan. "Right shoulder."
"Right-?" Other-Alan started, making a disgruntled face. "Urgh, it's sweaty."
Scott rolled his eyes. "I did just get back from a rescue." The others crowded around the two of them; even Not-Dad left his desk to get a closer look as Other-Alan finally located the shoulder in question and froze.
"What's this?"
"What does it look like?" Scott retorted, knowing full well what he was looking at.
"Thunderbird One… International Rescue," Other-Virgil read out. "Well, I guess that settles it." He turned to face Other-John's image. "How did you know?"
"Brains saw it when he was looking at the equipment he had with him," Other-John shrugged.
"What equipment?" Other-Alan sneered, lifting the flight suit and shaking it. "I don't see any equipment." Scott snatched it back.
"Aside from the built-in telemetry, it's all still in my room," he said. "My gear doesn't seem like it works here, but I'm not taking chances. I think the last thing you want is Thunderbird One trying to launch itself."
"What?" Other-Scott yelped, lunging for his lamps.
"You have built-in telemetry?" Other-John asked as the wall section swung around, taking Other-Scott with it. "And why would Thunderbird One launch itself?"
Scott shook his head.
"Different gear," he reminded him. "All our uniforms are linked to Thunderbird Five – measuring things like pulse, blood pressure, body temperature. That sort of stuff, so John doesn't have to wait for us to tell him if something's gone wrong."
"I want that," Other-John said immediately. To Scott's surprise, Other-Alan muttered something that sounded like agreement.
The wall rotated again and Other-Scott reappeared, looking calmer.
"She's not going anywhere," he reported, before narrowing his eyes at Scott. "What did you mean, she might launch herself?"
"I doubt it'll happen," Scott assured him, finding his chair again and sitting down, flight suit on his lap. "It's coded to my Thunderbird One, so chances are the remote controls won't do anything, especially as my communicator doesn't work, but I'm keeping them locked away to be safe. I don't want either Thunderbird One responding to them when yours is different tech and I can't see mine."
"Your Thunderbirds can be remote controlled?" Not-Dad frowned, and Scott sighed.
"I thought we were here for a debrief, not another round of twenty questions," he said pointedly, filing away the titbit that this universe's Thunderbirds didn't have built in remote control under 'technological differences'. The look he got in return informed him that Not-Dad didn't appreciate his authority being undermined, but the older man returned to his desk and steepled his fingers together.
That appeared to be the signal for the rest of them to stop standing around and re-find their seats. Remembering Other-Gordon's words from earlier, Scott settled back comfortably and reminded himself that he didn't know enough about their technology to interrupt. Clutching his flight suit in his hands, the material familiar under his fingers all he had left of home, he turned to glance at Other-Scott, who acknowledged him with a faint nod before directing his own attention to his father.
Scott followed suit.
"John called in an issue with Shackleton Power Plant," Not-Dad began, and Scott started, clenching his flight suit tightly in his fist. That was a nuclear facility – hadn't it blown several years ago? "The report stated two workers trapped inside – Scott?" For a split second, Scott thought Not-Dad was addressing him and his reaction, before Other-Scott started talking.
That was going to get very confusing.
"I arrived at the danger zone at eleven thirty two, Island time. The contact was a Cameron Agnew, the site's Superior Safety Engineer, who informed me that the temperature had reached critical levels inside the building. Two operators had failed to get out before the blast doors closed, sealing them in, and while the external control tower could be used to lower the temperature, the method was not safe for human exposure and so couldn't be used until the two men were evacuated. I set up Mobile Control by Thunderbird One as there wasn't enough security around to leave the ship secure and analysed the building schematics Mr Agnew supplied," Other-Scott began.
It took all of Scott's self-control not to interrupt, wondering why Other-John on Thunderbird Five hadn't got access to the building schematics long before Thunderbird One had arrived at the danger zone. Mobile Control was a brand new term to him – Other-Scott had mentioned it back on the trail, but hadn't explained what it was then, and it seemed there was no explanation coming now, either. Different technology, he reminded himself, looking down at his lap, where his flight suit – not sweaty, thank you Other-Alan – was firmly clamped between his fingers.
Other-Scott was still talking, describing how they'd had radio contact with the two trapped workers and the plan he'd devised to get them out, based on the schematics he'd had at his disposal. Other-Gordon had said it had to have been a simple mission, for them to have been back so quickly, and Scott could appreciate that as his counterpart described the obedience of the operators do to as they were told, and how everything was organised and in position even before Thunderbird Two arrived with the bulk of their gear.
Scott found himself impressed with how smoothly the rescue had gone as Other-Virgil took up the narrative, describing how he'd landed where Other-Scott had instructed and had piloted the Mole – which had to be their version of a Mole Pod – to dig its way underneath the blast doors while Other-Alan had used a 'Domo' – Scott had no idea what that was supposed to be – to support them from collapsing while they were tunnelled under.
Two operators rescued successfully, temperature supressed remotely as soon as they were safe, and the structural integrity of the building was maintained after they filled the Mole's track back in. Practically a textbook rescue, and Not-Dad seemed pleased with the outcome. Even though he had no personal stake in it – this wasn't his International Rescue – Scott found himself similarly pleased. There was no better rush than a rescue that went smoothly, without complications. In Scott's experience, those were rare.
"Well done, boys," Not-Dad said after the recounting was done and Other-Alan and Other-John made their own contributions. "A successful rescue once again; I'm proud of you." Scott flinched involuntarily at the words, having made the mistake of looking at the older man just as he said it. Just one more thing he'd never hear his father say again.
"Are you okay?" Other-Virgil asked, and when he turned to face him he realised they were all watching him.
"Fine," he snapped defensively, not enjoying being scrutinised. Other-Gordon had a look that was almost pitying, and Scott realised he had enough of the story to realise what had caused that reaction. None of the others did, although Other-John looked calculating and if he was anything like John, as Scott suspected he was, he was well on the way to drawing the right conclusions. The others all looked to be varying levels of confused – except Other-Alan, who was frowning. Again. Did he do anything other than frown?
"You don't look fine," the young man pointed out waspishly. Scott scowled at him.
"Alan." Once again it was Other-Scott chiding his brother, drawing out the name warningly. Other-Alan huffed.
"I'm just saying he's lying," the blond muttered petulantly. Scott couldn't quite believe he was supposed to be twenty – Alan had outgrown those sorts of remarks at least a year ago, for the most part at least. He was stilla teenager, after all.
"And how do you suppose you would be if you found yourself in another universe?" Other-Virgil pointed out reasonably. "Give the fella some slack, Alan."
Other-Alan grumbled but fell quiet.
"Does anyone else have anything to say about the mission?" Not-Dad asked, dragging them back on topic.
"No, father," the four brothers involved chorused, and he nodded his head, satisfied.
"In that case," Not-Dad continued, "the next thing to be dealt with is clothing for Scott. As has been pointed out, he cannot continue wearing our Scott's clothes."
"Or the same underwear," Other-Gordon muttered, just loud enough to be heard by the room. Scott gave him a half-hearted glare as Other-Virgil reached across to cuff him lightly. Other-Alan made a noise of disgust but Scott ignored him, as did his brothers.
"Someone will need take him to the mainland for shopping," Not-Dad continued, with only a disapproving glare directed at Other-Gordon to acknowledge the interruption. "Normally, I would say Scott, but that would prompt too many awkward questions. Virgil, you go."
"Yes, father," Other-Virgil said, making to stand.
"No," Scott said, mouth moving before his brain realised what it was saying. "I'll go with Gordon." A look of surprise crossed Other-Virgil's face, and something Scott didn't want to analyse too closely. Offence? Disappointment?
No, Scott didn't what to know what he was thinking.
"You realise we're not letting you pilot, right?" Other-Scott asked, eyebrow raised. Scott sighed, finding his way to his feet.
"Different technology," he said blandly. "I know. Are you telling me he can't pilot a plane?" He didn't want to go with any of them – enforced one-on-one time was begging for an interrogation – but at least he'd already got the worst of it out of the way with Other-Gordon.
"Not as well as I can," Other-Virgil hedged, although he was already sinking back down into his chair as though he could tell Scott wouldn't be changing his mind. Maybe he could.
It was the look Not-Dad shot Other-Gordon that cemented it. So far, all he'd had was Other-John's vague word and some less-hidden reactions from Other-Gordon to bring him to the conclusion that he was being treated like glass, but that look was all too much like the ones he'd seen on his own face in the immediate aftermath of his own Gordon's crash. The same look he had to fight whenever he sent Alan out in Thunderbird Three without him. The I don't want to let you out of my sight in case you get hurt look.
"Virgil-"
"I'll go, Father," Other-Gordon cut in, voice hard. "Virgil's just got back from a rescue. Let him rest."
"I can-"
Other-Gordon ignored his older brother, turning to face Scott with the faint ghost of a grin on his face. "No backseat piloting from you."
It had been a very long time since anyone had piloted Scott anywhere – occasional trips in Thunderbirds Two and Three notwithstanding. He couldn't say he was looking forwards to the experience, especially as he was asking the aquanaut to get behind the plane's controls.
"No promises," he offered, finding a small grin on his face. Other-Gordon groaned.
"Let's get this over with," he said. "Hey, Scott, you got a hat for him to wear? Otherwise the world's going to think you're going grey."
Other-Scott had been reclining in the chair, but at Other-Gordon's words shot to his feet, glowering at his younger brother before turning to face Scott.
"Come on." He gestured towards the door. "If the world's going to think you're me, you are not ruining my image."
"I still don't see the problem," Scott shrugged, but followed. He could at least appreciate the sort of damage paparazzi could do, and despite everything he wasn't about to throw Other-Scott under the press bus if he could help it.
"The problem is that you're wrecking my shirts and my image," Other-Scott muttered, pushing open his bedroom door. "The former we're dealing with by getting you your own, but there's not much we can do about the latter; seeing how the world knows I don't have a twin and doesn't know about your visit from an alternate universe, anyone who sees you will think you're me."
Scott sat down on the end of the bed as Other-Scott rummaged through his closet, scowling as a dark brown waistcoat was thrust in front of him.
"So what do I need to know?" he asked, picking up the offending item of clothing dubiously.
"More than I've got time to tell you if you want your own clothes today," Other-Scott retorted. "Put that on, and do those buttons up."
Scott grumbled, muttering under his breath about stupid fashions, but obeyed.
"Follow Gordon's lead, don't talk to anyone – Gordon can talk enough for both of you and won't say anything irreparable – and ignore anyone with a camera," Other-Scott told him; Scott would have bristled if it didn't all make sense. "I'm not sure why you wanted Gordon over Virgil, but I'd say it was the right call. Virgil's not great with the paparazzi, but Gordon can handle them."
"What are my chances of avoiding them?" Scott asked dryly, aware that if it was anything like home, practically nil. Other-Scott sent him a sympathetic look.
"Our cover is that we're all lazy playboys living off of Dad's fortune," he informed him, and that was useful information to know, even if Scott didn't like where it was headed. "It works wonders – even visitors to the island have never suspected we're International Rescue – but for it to work, we need the papers. They'll scrutinise everything they see you buy, too. What are you planning?"
"You're not telling me what I can and can't buy," Scott bristled. "Casual shirts, jeans, sneakers. Seriously, how do you not have sneakers?"
"I have sneakers," Other-Scott said, amused. "Just not in my room." Scott groaned and glared at the shoes he was currently wearing.
"You mean I didn't have to wear these?" he complained. "Where are they?"
"You are not wearing sneakers to the mainland," Other-Scott rebuked, before sighing himself. "Look, I know you want your own clothes, and it sounds a lot like your universe has different standards, but while I won't say a word about what you wear on the island, whenever you're on the mainland you might as well be me. If you must get jeans, at least get the expensive ones." He withdrew a fedora and eyed it critically before handing it to him. "That should hide the differences in our hair."
Feeling suffocated, Scott reluctantly put it on his head. He hadn't worn a hat in a long time, and definitely not a fedora.
"Sunglasses," Other-Scott said, brandishing a pair of square-rimmed ones. "That should do enough." Scott put them on, squinting as the room went a few shades darker.
"Are you ladies done in here?" Other-Gordon asked, leaning against the doorway. Other-Scott rolled his eyes.
"I'm holding you personally accountable for anything that ends up in the papers," he told his younger brother firmly. Other-Gordon grinned.
"Which of us don't you trust?" he asked rhetorically – Scott knew full well the answer was 'neither' – before shifting his attention to Scott. "Come on, Scott. Sooner we leave, sooner you get to change your underpants."
"Do you have to keep bringing that up?" Scott demanded.
"He's Gordon," Other-Scott said, as though that explained it. It did. "I do appreciate you not borrowing mine, though." Scott rolled his eyes.
"Let me just put my flight suit away and then I'm ready," he replied, brushing past Other-Gordon and heading for his designated room. Other-Gordon followed him, but to his relief Other-Scott stayed where he was.
"You look respectable, now," the aquanaut commented, although Scott wasn't so sure that was a compliment. He chose not to respond as he carefully folded up his flight suit and put it back with the rest of his gear, out of sight. "Ready?"
"You'll have to show me another hangar now," Scott informed him dryly, and Other-Gordon laughed.
"As if keeping any Scott Tracy from planes for any length of time is possible," he grinned. "Come on then, and remember you're not piloting."
"I know, I know," Scott grumbled, but followed the younger man from his designated room, past Other-Scott's still open door and then past the stairs – much to his consternation – and into the elevator, which clanged shut ominously behind him. He didn't jump, but it was a close thing, and Other-Gordon eyed him as he punched in a button.
"Claustrophobic?"
Scott choked back a laugh, thinking of his launch tube, which was both smaller and faster than the elevator they were currently travelling down in – and then down again, past the ground floor and into darkness. "Hardly."
Artificial light streamed in through the metal, and Scott watched an impressive array of planes come into sight – all civilian. No sign of the other Thunderbirds, and there was a large part of him disappointed by that revelation. Then again, if they were keeping International Rescue secret, he supposed keeping their public craft in the same hangar would raise some awkward questions.
"Is that a Tiger Moth?" he asked, spying a plane that seemed mid-restoration. "I haven't seen one of those in years!" Other-Gordon shrugged.
"Alan's pet project," he explained. "If he's not tinkering with cars, he's playing with that." Scott couldn't blame him – it looked like a beauty. "Scott's banned from touching it, by the way." Other-Gordon sounded amused. "We'll take Tin-Tin's girl – Ladybird."
Scott tore his eyes away from the Tiger Moth to see Other-Gordon pointing at a small plane, positioned near the hangar door. Compared to many of the other craft, it didn't look particularly special, or fast, and he sent a longing glance over at a sleek blue plane that looked designed for speed. Other-Gordon followed his gaze and laughed.
"That's Scott's baby," he told him. "Well, the one that isn't Thunderbird One. I'm banned from so much as breathing on it under pain of very painful death, so no matter what you say, we're not taking her. I have clearance to take the Ladybird, and only the Ladybird, so the Ladybird it is."
The elevator came to a smooth stop, and Scott followed Other-Gordon as he made a beeline for the Ladybird, despite wanting to stop and explore the planes some more. They looked familiar in a way so much hadn't since he'd woken up in the infirmary, and he stopped dead at the top of the steps into the Ladybird's cockpit.
He knew those controls. He'd flown planes with those controls. While none of his current planes – Thunderbirds or Tracy Jets – used those, they were just like his old training plane. Their old training plane, the one Grandma had taught Dad to fly in, and in turn Dad had taught him – and he'd taught Gordon and Alan. His chest stuttered, nostalgia crushing his lungs, and without thinking he stepped towards the pilot chair.
A hand jabbed him in the back.
"The passenger seat is the one on the right," Other-Gordon reminded him. Scott sent a longing look at the controls, but the hand jabbed him again and he reluctantly moved, allowing Other-Gordon to slither past him into the pilot seat and begin pre-flight checks. Resigned to being a reluctant passenger, and realising that not doing any backseat piloting was going to be a lot harder now he could see that this technology was the same, Scott slid into the passenger seat and clipped himself in.
It was obvious that Other-Gordon wasn't quite as used to piloting than his Gordon, or at least not this particular jet, and Scott bit his lip to stop himself from offering unwelcome advice as the younger man haltingly pulled them through the pre-flight checks. Other-Gordon glanced at him out of the corner of his eye as he finished fuel checks and groaned.
"I knew you'd be a terrible passenger. Remember – no backseat piloting."
"I know," Scott sighed, tearing his eyes away from the control panel and instead looking out of the cockpit window at the other planes in an attempt to distract himself. Behind them, the engine purred into life, familiar vibrations passing through his seat, and he forced himself to stay relaxed as the hangar door swung open to reveal the runway he'd seen from the narrow corridor in the villa.
The palm trees that lined it on either side didn't move as Other-Gordon taxied them out, but the Ladybird was relatively small as far as jets went. Scott had no doubt that Thunderbird Two also used this runway – although he couldn't look back to see what hid the entrance – and that the trees did need to somehow lean back out of the way for International Rescue's behemoth to pass by. At home, the palm trees were more of a reminder of their old legacy – Operation Cover-Up, as it was called here – than any real camouflage. It would be simple enough to remove them – the only hidden entrance that was possible to remove, as Gordon would murder him if he even considered getting rid of the pool, and the round house disguising Thunderbird Three's launch was just as integral – but they all liked the bowing trees, and it was always fun to watch people's confusion as they wondered how Thunderbird Two fit on the runway. More than one person had theorised that Thunderbird Two had a hidden, VTOL launch, just as they assumed Thunderbird One did.
Scott never knew if he should be insulted that everyone thought his 'bird could only do VTOL, or quietly smug that no-one else could figure out his girl.
"Ladybird to Base, requesting clearance for take-off," Other-Gordon said suddenly. The radio crackled temporarily, before Not-Dad's voice emerged in response.
"Base to Ladybird, clearance granted. Fly safe, Gordon. Scott, keep your head down and remember you're a Tracy."
"F.A.B.," Other-Gordon chirped, before Scott could formulate a response to that. Remember you're a Tracy? Scott couldn't forget that even if he wanted to, but he wasn't part of this Tracy family. Was Not-Dad giving him an unnecessary reminder that he was effectively pretending to be this universe's Scott Tracy, or did he mean something else by it?
What else could he mean by it? He didn't belong here, with this other Tracy family. There was no place for him here, and a gaping hole in his family, where he should be.
Analysing Not-Dad's intentions, along with everything else to do with the man, gave him an uncomfortable taste in his mouth and he shunted it all into a box in the back of his mind to be analysed later, or preferably never. He was going to buy – or rather, Other-Gordon was going to buy, because he certainly hadn't been given any money – what he wanted, and not conform to expectations. Other-Scott hadn't seemed too opposed to his brief shopping list, so Scott was taking that as permission.
"Here we go," Other-Gordon said, and Scott felt the familiar g-force of a jet picking up speed. Nothing like a Thunderbird, but he hadn't expected that. It was still a solid kick, though, more so than he had expected from that sort of jet. Either that was a standard universe difference, or Brains had done some tinkering. Whichever it was, Scott wasn't complaining.
Out of the window, he watched the land fall away. As they were travelling directly away from the island in what seemed to be a south westerly direction, from the position of the clouds and the dials on the dashboard, he couldn't see much of the island even if he twisted around.
"You'll see it when we come back," Other-Gordon pointed out, sounding amused, and feeling like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar, Scott slowly turned back around to face forwards again, casting an eye over the instrumentation panel out of habit. "Gee, you're insatiable, aren't you? Fine, go stare out the window, if that stops you judging my piloting."
"I don't need to judge your piloting," Scott retorted, although he did concede to looking out at the thin cloud layer they were approaching rather than what Other-Gordon was doing. "You're an aquanaut, not a pilot."
"I still have a pilot's license," Other-Gordon reminded him, a little sulkily. "If you wanted a pilot, you should have gone with Virg, or even Alan. I'm sure we could have pulled some strings to miraculously give Scott a twin and you two could have spent some quality time bonding over speed if you'd really wanted. I really don't have the foggiest why you insisted on me."
Scott looked at him out of the corner of his eye, eyebrow raised.
"You don't?"
Other-Gordon grumbled.
"Well, if I had to guess, I'd say you didn't want to be trapped with someone you hadn't already sworn to silence, and as that leaves me and John, there's not much of a choice," he pointed out. "You know, none of the fellas would ask questions if you asked them not to?"
"And have them stewing in curiosity the whole time instead?" Scott asked dubiously. "That would be worse."
"I suppose you have a point," Other-Gordon conceded. "But this is the only time I fly you anywhere. You want my company so badly next time, we go by boat."
That was such a Gordon response that it should have hurt, like all those times Other-Alan had felt like his Alan, but somehow, it didn't. Instead, Scott just laughed.
A little bit more spot the difference, but also some things that aren't so different after all! Interestingly, there is some tech that's stayed the same between TOS and TAG, as Scott has just discovered (unfortunately for Scott, that doesn't make him any happier).
This is the last chapter I've already got prewritten, so this may be the last chapter for a while. I refuse to rush this just to fit to a schedule, and with uni work kicking in and now TAG Secret Santa, I have other things with more important deadlines, but I am still working on this one. Chapter 8 is partially written, but also throwing me for some wobblies, so I don't know how long it'll take to finish... Just a warning that the regular weekend updates may have come to an end for now.
Thanks for reading!
Tsari