Chapter 56.

Penelope loved watching the sun come up.

She'd been an early riser since childhood, and thoroughly enjoyed her pre-dawn walks around the grounds at home with Bertie. Like the morning mists that swirled around her beloved topiary garden, something about being awake before everyone else filled her with a sense of blissful serenity.

She sighed and took a dainty sip of tea. It was nine o'clock, and she'd already been up for three hours. Bertie and Celery were both walked, the dishwasher was empty, and nine mugs were waiting to have tea poured into them.

She frowned and double checked the time. She knew that John, Gordon, and Alan tended to sleep in when allowed, but she'd expected Scott to be up. She'd heard on the grapevine that he was often up slamming plates and banging pots at dumb o'clock in the morning, with little to no concern over who he woke up.

Not today, apparently.

What was even odder was that Parker wasn't up either.

Penelope's frown deepened. Technically, their time on Tracy Island constituted a holiday, so Parker was under no obligation to rise at the same time as her. Still, she was starting to get lonely and was craving some human company. There was only so much intellectual stimulation a pair of dogs could offer.

She drained the last of her tea, placed her empty mug in the reconstructed sink, and headed for the stairs, Celery and Bertie on her heels. She'd let Parker sleep uninterrupted until ten. He rarely took days off and was well overdue a good lie in.

Upon reaching the upstairs landing, Penelope suddenly hesitated. She had no idea which room belonged to which brother, and also had no idea what kind of sleep attire she might find some of them in. She had no desire to walk into a bedroom and catch one them in the buff. It was their house and they were entitled to privacy, but she knew she wouldn't be able to work with any of them ever again if she ended up catching more than an eyeful.

Shelving her concern over what the correct etiquette for such a situation was, she selected a door at random and knocked. When she didn't receive a reply, she decided it was safe to invite herself in.

The curtains were drawn, making it hard to identify the room's occupant. An unmoving lump was hunched in the middle of the bed, the covers slowly rising and falling. Penelope waited for her eyes to adjust before walking over and gently peeling back the top of the duvet. A mane of red hair greeted her.

"John?" Penelope whispered, gently shaking the redhead's shoulder, "Are you okay? It's nine o'clock and none of you are up."

John made an animalistic noise of discomfort before reburying himself under the duvet. Over on his bedside table, a lemongrass diffuser hummed soothingly.

Penelope frowned and tried to curl her hand around John's face so that she could feel his forehead, "Are you ill? You look as if you've been sweating."

A pitiful mewl was her only answer.

Penelope withdrew her hand and retreated back into the hall. If John had come down with something overnight, then there was a good chance his brothers would also have it.

The next door Penelope selected contained an equally pathetic sight. Apparently, the brother's sleeping positions varied as much as their hairstyles.

While John had been curled up like a hedgehog, Scott was the complete opposite. The eldest had his arms and legs dangling off both sides of the mattress, which was an impressive feat for a king size, and looked like an oversized starfish.

"Oh, Scott," Penelope crooned as she crossed the room and placed the back of her hand against his forehead, "What's the matter? Please, talk to me."

Scott groaned and tried to sit up, but was forced to stop and flop back down when his face turned a rather nice shade of green. He'd flung his t-shirt across the room at some point during the night, however thankfully still had his pyjama bottoms on.

"You feel hot," Penelope commented, motioning to Scott's shirtless torso, "Did you get a bad case of night sweats?"

Scott nodded weakly, cringing when the motion caused his stomach to somersault.

"John looked like he'd been sweating a lot too," Penelope mused as she opened a window to let the breeze in, "There, is that better?"

Scott gave a grunt that could have been a yes or a no, but sounded suspiciously like, "Eggs."

"I'm going to check on the others, it looks as if you've all come down with something," Penelope exclaimed as she headed for the door, "Just stamp on the floor if you need anything."

Two down, three to go.

Unfortunately, things weren't destined to get any better. Or more dignified.

"Oh, Gordon," Penelope sighed as she creaked open the next door and clapped her eyes onto the conked out aquanaut. While John was a hedgehog and Scott a starfish, Gordon was definitely a bat. He was diagonally sprawled across his mattress, head and shoulders dangling off the edge so that, from the doorway, it looked as if he'd been decapitated.

Penelope groaned softly and perched herself on the edge of the bed. Gordon had discarded his duvet and pillows in the night and, like Scott, had also sweated clean through his nightshirt, "You too?"

Gordon made no acknowledgement that he'd even heard Penelope or felt her sit down. Mild concern began to set in as she leant over and placed her hand against the back of his neck. He too was hot to the touch.

"Gordon, I need you to tell me how you're feeling," Penelope whispered, taking care to keep her voice as low and gentle as possible, "I think you and your brothers have come down with some kind of bug, but I can't speculate any further unless I know all of your symptoms. I'm going to list a couple and you just make a sound for the ones that apply, okay?"

Grunt.

"Right, you're obviously running a temperature. How about a headache?"

Grunt.

"Nausea?"

Grunt.

"Diarrhea?"

A silence that practically screamed 'none of your business.'

"Fatigue?"

Grunt.

"Vertigo?"

Silence.

"Vomiting?"

Silence.

Penelope frowned as she entered the symptoms into her compact mirror, "Sounds like you have a mild case of food poisoning. Did you eat anything out of the ordinary last night?"

"Eggs," Gordon slurred before falling back into a state of semi-consciousness.

Interesting. That was the second mention of eggs.

"Okay, I'm going to check on Alan and Virgil. Stamp on the floor if you need anything," Penelope instructed as she glided out the door and poked her head into the next room.

"Oh dear."

Virgil was sat up in bed, his bulky frame enveloped by a thick tartan dressing gown. Despite being very much awake, his head had lolled to the side and his eyes had a deadpan glaze to them.

"Virgil, can you hear me?" Penelope asked, picking her way across the floor. A fresh fruity scent engulfed the entire room, courtesy of the cluster of wild frangipani flowers set beneath the open window.

"Eggs," was all Virgil could muster, shivering slightly as he burrowed even further into his dressing gown.

Penelope sighed and set about readjusting the pillows so that Virgil's spine was supported, "Yes, I've heard that eggs are to blame."

"Is Thunderbird Two alright?" Virgil asked, blinking hazily as Penelope placed her hand against his forehead.

"I think so," Penelope answered, frowning when she didn't detect the same temperature as she had in the other three, "If I promise to go and check on her for you, will you answer a couple of questions?"

"Ask her if she ate any eggs," Virgil slurred, tightening the cord on his dressing gown. It was with a suitable amount of horror that Penelope noticed that he still had his flannel pyjamas on underneath. In contrast to his brothers, he appeared to be dealing with a bad case of chills.

"Okay, I'll ask her," Penelope capitulated with a smile, "Right, do you feel sick or like you want to vomit?"

"Sick, yes. Vomit, no."

"Headache?"

"Massive."

"Dehydration?"

"Don't think so."

"Muscle aches?"

"Not really."

"Fatigue?"

"Yes."

Penelope clicked her tongue as she entered the symptoms into her medical tracker once again, "Hmm, looks like you have the same bug as poor Gordon, bar the fever. I've just got Alan left to check. Call or stamp if you need me, okay?"

"F.A.B," Virgil groaned, draping an arm over his eyes and slumping into a semi-horizontal position.

Penelope exhaled through her nose as she clicked Virgil's door shut. Given the state of the other four, she wasn't holding out much hope for Alan.

Of course, the boys never disappointed.

"Aunt Agnes?" Alan squeaked, blinking as the shaft of sunlight from his open bedroom door fell across his face, "Is that you?"

"Not quite, darling," Penelope replied, gingerly stepping over the assorted piles of random stuff littering the floor, "I've come to check on you. Everyone's come down with food poisoning, or so it seems. How are you feeling?"

Alan blinked sluggishly and remained quiet. His blue eyes had an almost feverish glow to them.

"I'll take that as a thumbs down," Penelope whispered, her manicured hand smoothing a couple of blond locks away from Alan's sweaty brow, "Looks like I've got an egg hunt ahead of me."

"C-Check behind the sofa cushions," Alan suggested, his teeth chattering, "I f-find all kinds of useful stuff there."

Penelope smiled, ever charmed by Alan's sarcastic sense of humour. She opened her mouth to reply, but was distracted by something shattering, "Oh, hold that thought."

Instinctively, Penelope's feet led her towards the source of the noise, which happened to be Gordon's room. She opened the door and inched inside, only to step on what remained of the bedside lamp, which looked suspiciously like it had been thrown at the door, "Gordon? What happened?"

"I tried stamping, but you didn't hear me."

-x-

Much to Penelope's dismay, her trusty driver was also out of action.

"Oh, m'lady!" Parker groaned, wincing in visible pain, "Those eggs that Master Alan made last night are killin' me!"

Penelope closed her eyes and sighed. That brought the indisposed man tally to six. And, to make matters worse, Kayo had volunteered to ferry Sally over to the mainland to check on a delayed order of drugs for the medical bay, effectively leaving Penelope as the only healthy person on the island. Brains unfortunately couldn't be counted on, since he was about as confident around sick people as he was around women.

Closer inspection of the fridge revealed one disturbingly overcooked egg rolling around inside a lonely plastic container. A sticky note with Parker, Kayo, and Penelope's names on was attached to the front, leading Penelope to the conclusion that there had once been three eggs, but a certain someone called Parker had taken the liberty of eating two.

Penelope had heard all about the kitchen fire and Alan's attempt at making dinner, however had assumed that whatever food he'd been in the middle of cooking had been lost in the flames. Based on the available data, she deduced that the eggs had overboiled under Alan's supervision, and then spoiled during the fire fiasco. Further evidence hidden in the bin suggested that the Tracys had eaten their own eggs out of sibling loyalty and had eased the pain by masking the flavour with various condiments. Alan had then presumably left the three eggs intended for herself, Parker, and Kayo in the fridge for later consumption.

Penelope hummed as the pieces began to fall into place. She and Parker had finished their conference call with Colonel Casey late the previous night, so had raided FAB 1's traffic stash and satiated their dinnertime hunger with bananas and energy bars. They, like Kayo, had had no knowledge of the leftovers sat waiting in the fridge. Unfortunately, Parker had obviously stumbled across them at some point during the evening, presumably when getting the milk for his bedtime cup of tea. Unlike the Tracys, he had a penchant for the slightly weirder side of cuisine. Offal, haggis, jellied eels, and Marmite were all favourites of his, so an overcooked egg (or two) had probably barely registered on his gustatory radar.

In an effort to distract herself from the alarming reality of having five sick men and one sick teenager to care for, Penelope took Alan's advice and ferreted underneath one of the sofa cushions for humour's sake.

What she found significantly brightened her morning.

It was a handwritten 'To Do List' on the back of one of Virgil's old mission reports. Based on the messiness of the handwriting and the date of the rescue, Penelope concluded that a seven-year-old Alan had been the author.

Apparently, his seven-year-old self had been just as ambitious as his sixteen-year-old self.

To Do List:

Re-invent chocolate milk

Save the world

Hug John

Teleport bread