Chapter 55.

Scott liked to think he had reasonable expectations of his brothers.

They were to buy him expensive Christmas presents, keep their rooms clean, and refuel their Thunderbirds after every mission, irrespective of distance travelled.

Sadly, everything beyond that was a bit of a haze, including the expectations he placed on Alan when it came to preparing food. Hazy expectations or not, he was ninety-nine percent certain that setting half the kitchen on fire was bad form.

Scott was stumped. The kitchen barely contained any flammable material. Also, was that a knife lodged in the ceiling?

Never mind. He could find out later.

"Virgil!" Scott yelled, groping desperately for the fire extinguishers they kept stored in the larder, "Code Three! Kitchen! Now!"

A panicked Virgil skidded into the room two seconds later, his arms full of grocery bags, "Oh my god!" he cried, dropping his load in sheer shock, "What the hell happened?"

Scott snarled and used his good arm to tackle the portion of the fire that was engulfing half the sink, "No clue, but I'll bet my spare jetpack that Alan's cooking is to blame."

Virgil let out an animalistic cry of grief as the fire promptly ate his favourite pair of oven mitts.

"Did I hear a Code Three call?" John asked, sprinting down from the lounge, "Sorry for not responding sooner. I made the mistake of going into the bathroom after Gordon let off one of his stink bombs in there. I've only just regained consciousness."

Neither Virgil nor Scott made any effort to acknowledge the redhead's presence, their attention occupied by the fire that was chomping its way through the kitchen counter.

"Hey, did I hear someone yell for a Code Three?" Alan asked as he too tottered down from the lounge, Gordon close on his heels, "Because our next drill isn't scheduled until– holy hell on a Thunderbird!"

Scott abruptly stuck a foot out to prevent both his youngest brothers from advancing too close to the fire, "John! Keep them away, would you?"

"F.A.B," the redhead replied, using his long arms to herd the blond duo towards the safety of the patio. Scott and Virgil had enough firefighting experience between them to douse the sun, but worked best when little brothers were absent.

A soft beep sounded as John's comm device began to glow, "Hello, John. It's EOS."

"Hello, EOS," John replied, his nerves instantly on edge , "Is everything okay?"

"Oh yes, all systems onboard Thunderbird Five are fully operational," EOS replied, her tone deceptively cheery, "I just wanted to remind you of the appointment you've got booked for tomorrow."

"Appointment?" John's eyebrows nearly climbed off his face in confusion, "What do you mean? I'm not due a physical for another two months."

Against the backdrop of Scott screaming for Virgil to start extinguishing the barstools, EOS sighed, "Not that kind of appointment. I took the liberty of booking you in for a procedure that will terminate your ability to procreate. It's called a vasectomy. I've scheduled you in for one at ten o'clock tomorrow morning at the Family Planning Clinic in Christchurch, New Zealand. Would you like me to talk you through how the surgery works?"

John was mortified. EOS had made medical bookings for him in the past that he'd ignored. So many in fact, that he'd been blacklisted by countless hospitals worldwide for repeatedly missing appointments.

But she'd never made a booking for something so intimate, at least to date anyway. She'd booked him in for all kinds of other things; a hair transplant, since her predictions indicated that he'd end up bald long before his brothers. A brow lift, since her predictions indicated that he'd end up with sagging skin long before his brothers. Eye bag removal, since her predictions indicated that he'd end up with sunken eyes long before his brothers. Liposuction, since her predictions indicated that he'd run to fat long before his brothers…

…still, at least all of those had been above the waist.

While Gordon and Alan were preoccupied with laughing at Virgil, who'd gotten caught in a stray blast from Scott's extinguisher and was standing in the middle of the kitchen like a horrified scarecrow, white foam dripping off his face and arms, John took the opportunity to make his feelings known to the AI who'd been illegally squatting inside Thunderbird Five for the past eighteen months.

"EOS, kindly cancel that booking. I've no interest in being slapped with yet another fine," John ordered, his chest tightening in anticipation of the inevitable resistance.

"Why?" EOS asked, "I've been keeping an observation log of your behaviour since the day I first became acquainted with you, and all the data I've collected indicates that you would be bad at parenting. Plus, I hear ginger humans make bad spouses."

"And where did you hear that?" John sighed, his mind already offering multiple answers.

"Gordon," EOS chirped, "He and I have become quite close since he gave me the Houndfish dimensions I was looking for."

"Figures," John muttered, "Look, just cancel it, okay? I promise to help you with all of your scientific papers from now on, but only if you stop booking these ridiculous appointments for me."

"I'm just trying to streamline your bodily functions and enhance your physical appearance," EOS sniffed, "I don't want an ugly creator."

That made John snort. Another man might have taken EOS's words to heart and had a meltdown, but not him. He knew he was nice looking. He just didn't allow it to go to his head.

"I appreciate your concern, EOS. But I'm content with the way I look," John replied, "Beauty is subjective and comes in many different shapes, colours, and forms. Now, that booking, if you please?"

"Fine," EOS grouched, disconnecting with an audible pout.

John allowed himself a rare smirk of victory. He was slowly but surely learning how to beat the AI at her own game. And he was loving it.

Unfortunately, the situation in the kitchen hadn't turned out quite as positively.

The fire had been extinguished, which was a huge relief. It had jumped from the countertop over to the larder, however hadn't been able to sink its claws into any food, thank goodness.

Interestingly, it had also jumped to one other, slightly less obvious surface.

Virgil's jeans.

Gordon howled with laughter as he watched his brother hurtle down the patio with his pants on fire, a frantic Scott pursuing him with what little remained of his fire extinguisher.

Even John had to admit the sight was hilarious. His brother's only saving grace was that Penelope and Parker hadn't finished the conference call they were on with Colonel Casey yet.

Against the backdrop of the smoking kitchen, Gordon's laughter, Virgil's shrieks, and the intermittent spurting of Scott's extinguisher as he directed it at Virgil's backside, a familiar helium tone piped up.

"Oh wow," Alan exclaimed, "My boiled eggs survived!"

-x-

Brains spent the next five hours reassembling the charred remains of Tracy Island's kitchen.

He was no handyman, but considering he'd designed and built the entire Thunderbird fleet, as well as their army of pod vehicles, he was confident that he and MAX could patch together a sink, some countertops, and a couple of barstools.

In any case, the kitchen belonged to everyone who lived on the island, him included.

Unfortunately, not everyone saw it that way.

Tuning out Scott and John's argument over whether they should replace their ruined plates with china or stoneware, Brains fished some Tupperware boxes out of an undamaged cupboard and handed them to Alan.

"Thanks, Brains," Alan gushed, unfazed by the destruction his cooking had wrought, "Shame about the toaster getting…well…toasted, but at least we still have the eggs! No soldiers though…"

Four eyes bulged in disbelief as Alan began scooping what remained of his eggs into five separate containers.

"Shouldn't we…um…wait for the others to return?" John suggested, his fear palpable.

"Kayo's been called back to Argentina and won't be home until late," Alan replied, scraping desperately at one of the shells that was refusing to unstick from the base of the pan, "As for Parker and Lady P, they can just have theirs when they get back. It's already gone seven o'clock, and I'm starving."

Three panicked faces instinctively turned to Scott, who raised a finger to his lips and discreetly motioned to several bottles stashed inside his sling.

"Should help mask the taste," he muttered, surreptitiously sliding a container of hot sauce over to Virgil and a tub of mayonnaise over to Gordon, "Use as much as you need."

Virgil didn't need to be told twice. Within the space of six seconds he'd used so much hot sauce it looked as if open-heart surgery had been performed on his egg. Scott snatched the bottle as soon as Virgil was done with it and proceeded to copy his brother, while Gordon and John busied themselves with drowning their own eggs in mayonnaise. Alan predictably chose to garnish his egg in ketchup. After slapping the base of the bottle to make sure he'd managed to get every last drop out, he gave the signal for his brothers to start eating.

"Oh, wow!" Virgil wheezed, his entire mouth suddenly going numb, "T-That's a lot of spice!"

Scott gagged around his own mouthful, "Yeah, but at least it overrides the stink."

"Stink?" Gordon paused his chewing, "Eggs shouldn't stink, bro. Hey Al, did you check the use by date on this batch?"

Alan shrugged and mopped up a blob of ketchup with the remaining half of his egg, "I didn't know eggs could go off. I just used one of the boxes at the back of the larder."

"Relax," John muttered, chasing a stray drip of mayonnaise with his finger, "Eggs smell when they're overcooked because of a chemical reaction that produces hydrogen sulphide. They're still safe to eat."

Gordon frowned, but obediently dipped his egg into a combination of mayonnaise and hot sauce and tore off a mouthful.

"I'll leave the remaining three in the fridge for Kayo, Parker, and Lady P," Alan announced, licking his fingers clean, "Brains, did the fire damage any of the electrics?"

Brains straightened and shook his head, soot smeared across his glasses, "N-No it didn't. The fridge is still fully operational, so at least we don't have to worry about food spoiling."

"That's a relief," Virgil muttered, hiccupping slightly as the hot sauce tormented his throat, "I bought most of the stuff in there only a few hours ago."

"Add china plates to the list for your next supply run," Scott instructed, rising to his feet and stifling a belch, "Blue or white preferably, or a combination of both."

John's face puckered in indignation, "But we've always had stoneware. All of mom's stuff is stoneware, plus it washes better than china."

Scott snorted and went to the sink to rinse his hands, realising too late that a charred hole was all that remained.

"That's the dishwasher's problem, not mine."