Chapter 62.
Tragically, Scott's tipsy butt never made it to Thunderbird One.
The moving platform that ferried him from his launch chute to the pilot's chair was a lot further from the ground than he remembered. He also swore it was moving at twice its usual speed, but that might have just been the wine talking.
Despite insisting to Brains that he didn't need a safety rail, Scott found himself wishing for nothing else as the hydraulic arm began to extend the launch platform across the vast expanse of nothingness that separated Thunderbird One from the launch bay. Usually, he was so focused on the mission at hand that he didn't have time to look down. Unfortunately, he'd had nothing but time of late.
A warning siren sounded around the hangar as Scott sank to his knees and slapped the concealed emergency button on the side of the platform. Almost immediately, Thunderbird One's entire launch sequence ground to a halt. Up in the lounge, the eyes on the eldest Tracy's portrait illuminated red.
"Uh oh," Virgil muttered, glancing up from the kebab he was in the middle of chewing, "Ah geez, I knew I shouldn't have let him launch in that state. Grandma is going to kill me."
John, Gordon, and Alan swiftly put down their own kebabs and rose to their feet.
"Gordon, grab the first aid kit," Virgil instructed, wiping his hands on a napkin, "John, go down and assess the situation. I've no idea what kind of mess he's gotten himself into, but we should be prepared."
"F.A.B," both brothers replied, zipping off in opposing directions. Celery squeaked in confusion as Gordon ran out the room, her claws scrabbling against the hardwood floor as she scurried after her owner.
Down by the holoprojector, Alan looked torn between being angry and terrified. Angry because he'd had to abandon his dinner. Terrified because if anything happened to Scott, he was screwed. He'd never admit it out loud, but he'd spent many a sleepless night mulling over situations just like the one that was now unfolding.
Despite how invincible Scott liked to think he was, he wouldn't be around forever. Alan had done the maths. If their speedfreak of a brother kicked the bucket prematurely, leadership of International Rescue would automatically transfer to Virgil. Naturally, it was implied that in the event of such a shake up, John would be forced to step up as Alan's main caregiver. Virgil liked to share the load more than Scott did, and had made it clear on multiple occasions that he didn't approve of their eldest brother's modus operandi of being everything to everyone.
Alan knew he was lucky to have multiple brothers to turn to, and John certainly had talents the others lacked. But reality was reality. It was a well-known fact that the redhead couldn't even keep a cactus alive, meaning Alan's chances of survival if left under his care would reduce by approximately forty two percent.
He wasn't lying when he said he'd done the maths.
"I'll meet you down there!" Alan yelled, bombing towards the hangar stairwell while pointedly ignoring Virgil's reply to stay put.
A loud 'thwack' echoed around the kitchen as Vigil's palm became acquainted with his face.
Some days, it was honestly like he had four kids instead of four brothers.
-x-
"Interesting."
"Fascinating."
"Intriguing."
"What, in the name of memory foam mattresses, is he doing?"
Silence ricocheted off the walls of the hangar as Virgil, John, Gordon, and Alan gathered underneath the shadow of Thunderbird One's launch platform. Atop said launch platform was Scott, his arms and legs wrapped around the steel disc he normally stood upon as if his very life depended on it.
Which technically it did. Unlike the other four, Scott's launch sequence was the only one that carried a genuine risk of death with it. Nobody chose to speak about the time Virgil had almost missed his monkey bars, because apparently, it had been a genuine 'one off' incident.
Consistent with tradition, Gordon was the first to open his mouth, "Scott, are you alright? What happened?"
A faint whimper was the only answer.
"Scott?" Virgil repeated, cupping his hands around his mouth to amplify his voice, "Are you hurt? Do you need help?"
Another faint whimper.
"How are we going to reach him?" Alan asked, gaping shamelessly at his brother's predicament, "Is one of us going to have to climb up there?"
John shook his head, his eyes scanning the hangar for tools they could use to aid their cause, "No, that would be too risky. The focus needs to be on him coming down to us, not us going up to him."
"We could use the hydraulic crane from my launch bay," Alan suggested, "If we redirect it from Thunderbird Three to Thunderbird One, we could manoeuvre it up and use it to bring him down."
Virgil pondered the idea for a moment before shaking his head, "It wouldn't work, he's too panicked. One of us is going to have to go up and help him. Any volunteers?"
"Not Gordon," John butted in, cringing when Scott let loose something that sounded disturbingly like a sob, "He's terrible with heights."
"Hey!" Gordon snapped, stepping up so that his face was mere inches from John's, "I resent that."
"But you don't deny it," the redhead countered, ushering Gordon away with a 'shoo' motion of his hands as though he were some kind of animal.
Gordon scowled, but didn't contest his brother's counterattack. There was a jolly good reason why his Thunderbird was the only one that couldn't fly. Put simply, he wasn't scared of heights. He was terrified of them.
Alan's eyes creased in disbelief, "Seriously, Gordo? You're a fully-fledged member of the world's most elite rescue squad, and you're scared of a little air?"
"I most certainly am not," Gordon lied, his tone low, "Actually, I love heights. It's widths I'm scared of."
John gave a snort that was either sarcasm or mirth. Telling the difference was impossible.
"Guys!" Scott croaked, gulping when he realised how far beneath him the ground was, "Now's your chance to repay me for…well…everything!"
Three sets of eyes turned towards Virgil, who sighed, "Fine, I'll go."
John and Gordon stood aside as Virgil rolled his shoulders and began rummaging in a storage trunk for rope and a safety harness, "I'll take his launch chute down from the lounge and climb out to him. Alan, go and find one of Thunderbird One's spare cargo nets. Spread it out and pull it taut in case he falls before I reach him. Gordon, call Lady P and Kayo to help. John, I need you to keep him calm while I'm gone. Talk to him about something, anything, but just try and keep his mind off the situation. He's scared and thinking like a victim."
Gordon and Alan nodded, their behaviour shifting effortlessly from casual homebodies to professional first responders. Gordon's feet instinctively took him back in the direction of the stairwell, his mind calculating the best way to quickly summon Penelope and Kayo. Alan threw himself to his knees and began fossicking around in one of Brains's storage lockers, his hands sifting through spare firefighting suits and grapple cords in search of a cargo net.
Virgil yelled a few words of encouragement up at Scott before following Gordon up the stairs, taking them two at a time in his haste to get back to the lounge.
John swallowed thickly and gazed up at his terrified brother. There weren't many situations that rattled him, but seeing either Scott or Virgil freak out was usually enough to make him reach for a paper bag. Over the course of his career, his calm mind and soothing voice had been an oasis of hope to countless people while they waited for one or more of his brothers to arrive. He'd provided emotional support to terrorism hostages and hysterical parents, right down the line to critically injured pensioners and panicking children. He knew how to soothe and reassure.
Unfortunately, the very skillset that made him so good at his job didn't translate seamlessly into his home life. He could handle it when Gordon and Alan freaked out, but Scott and Virgil were his older brothers. They were, regrettably, one of his few weaknesses.
John sometimes hated being the middle brother. If Scott wanted something done, he instinctively turned to Virgil first. He wasn't part of the 'older' group, nor did he belong to the 'younger' group. He just kind of floated in the middle, straddling both camps while belonging to neither.
"Try not to panic!" John yelled, silently grateful that Scott couldn't see the expression on his face, "Everything's under control down here! Just focus on your breathing and try to relax. Virgil is on his way."
Predictably, Scott didn't answer.
Predictably, John took offense.
Rude.
"Alan's gone to get a safety net in case you fall," he carried on, irritated by his brother's silence. Most rescue victims didn't stop talking once they knew that help was on the way…unless Scott had ascended to a whole new level of terror that even John had yet to witness.
"Try not to look down," he ploughed on, "And try to not worry too much about falling. Only sixty-one percent of high altitude falls result in death."
"And the other thirty-nine?" Scott wheezed, his voice weak with vertigo.
"Permanent disfiguration," John replied, "But the rate of survival increased from zero point three to zero point four last year, so consider yourself lucky."
Despite the terror coursing through his veins, Scott felt himself snort. If being International Rescue's resident shit magnet was considered lucky, then yes. He was indeed very lucky.