Chapter 65.
Three minutes and one crippled spine later, John and Scott made it back to the safety of Thunderbird One's launch bay.
It was with the grace of a half-dead walrus that John collapsed onto his stomach, a groan of pain travelling up his throat. Despite no longer being suspended sixty-five feet up, Scott was continuing to maintain his vice-like grip on his torso, apparently still unconvinced that he was truly safe.
Not that it mattered. When Virgil finally arrived, he'd be able to sling Scott over his shoulder and take him far, far, far, far away from John. Then, all being well, a certain redhead would have a certain window of opportunity to drag his broken body over to a certain space elevator and retreat back up to a certain Thunderbird Five.
And he was locking the door.
Speaking of Virgil, where the hell was he?
John's answer came not in the form of a voice, nor a physical presence, but a loud bang.
A bang that emanated from Scott's launch chute.
Using the last of his strength to lift his head, John was surprised and relieved to see an arm protruding from the steadily opening chute doors. Strangely, the doors were opening at a speed entirely inconsistent with the quick response reputation International Rescue had worked so hard to perfect. In other words, they were opening ridiculously slowly and sounded broken to boot.
More work for the ever-overworked Brains.
John's eyes narrowed in intrigue as the arm was followed by Virgil's traumatised face, which was followed by his half-dressed torso, which was then followed by his legs and the sad remains of the jeans encasing them. A quick visual sweep showed that his left leg had a robotic arm attached to it. Despite showing a lot more skin than usual, his modesty appeared to thankfully still be intact.
John felt relief wash over him. He could bleach his eyes and hurl himself into the sea another day.
Virgil barely noticed the rather compromised position Scott and John were in as he made to drag himself free of the launch chute, his breathing loud and erratic.
Snap.
An exotic sounding profanity suddenly echoed down the launch shaft, accompanied by the sound of rushing air.
Someone was falling. And fast.
Down on the hanger floor, Alan yelled for an update.
Poor Virgil barely had time to drag himself clear of the chute that had violated him so shamelessly before Gordon came crashing down on top of him, the resulting impact rendering both of them unconscious.
Alan yelled for another update.
-x-
"Valium, anyone?"
Scott, Virgil, John, and Gordon all nodded and held out their hands as Alan walked between them, shaking a small container of white pills into their outstretched palms.
Scott had finally managed to sober up, but was suffering delayed fatigue as a result of his rather prolonged panic attack. Alan was having difficulty assessing whether his eldest brother was even fully conscious.
Virgil was sporting a neck brace, courtesy of the whiplash Gordon had given him after splattering on top of him. A quick med-scan had revealed that the damage was minimal, however that wasn't stopping him from yelping every time he moved or the wind blew too strongly.
John was drugged up to the eyeballs on painkillers and was giving all the signs of being as high as a kite. The lack of resistance he put up when EOS radioed in to tell him that she'd accidentally broadcast an audio file of him singing in the shower across half of Europe cemented the diagnosis.
Gordon was sat on the floor shaking uncontrollably, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. His teeth were chattering so badly it was a small wonder they hadn't danced clean out of his mouth. The little tumble he'd taken down Scott's chute had only intensified his fear of heights even more.
Celery's ears drooped sadly as she surveyed her owner's trembling form. Scampering over to her bed in the corner of the lounge, she retrieved her favourite Squeaky Shark toy and dropped it at Gordon's feet. Squeaky Shark had been the very first toy she'd been given after arriving on Tracy Island, and Gordon always enjoyed throwing it for her.
Celery's tail ceased wagging when Squeaky Shark was ignored. She was confused. As a former stray, she'd never had toys of her own before. She now had a huge pile all to herself, but was learning quickly that all the toys in the world were useless unless you had a human to keep you company while you played with them.
Picking up on Gordon's non-verbal cue, Celery scooped Squeaky Shark up in her mouth and padded down the line of Tracys. Virgil ignored her, Scott gently shoved her away with his foot, and John exploded into a sneezing frenzy as soon as she drew near. Thankfully, Alan was more than happy to make up for his brother's negligence, and stooped to affectionately wrap his arms around the little mutt's neck.
An explosive laugh suddenly sounded from outside, closely followed by high-pitched tittering. Celery yelped and dove for cover underneath the sofa John and Virgil were sat on. She still struggled with loud noises, especially when they came with little to no warning. Squeaky Shark lay abandoned at Alan's feet.
The perpetrators turned out to be none other than Kayo and Penelope. Both women were holding empty champagne flutes and howling with laughter at something that probably wasn't even funny.
"Oh Penny, you do crack me up!" Kayo hiccupped as she deposited her glass on Jeff's desk, completely oblivious to the four distraught men and their teenage carer huddled together by the holotable, "What would it take to get you to move here permanently?"
Penelope giggled and bent to unbuckle her high-heeled boots, equally oblivious to the four emergency responders and their silent pleas for female tenderness, "Parker's the one you'll have to convince, not me. And Bertie, although I think Celery has done a pretty good job of winning him over."
Kayo pondered her colleague's statement for a moment, "I'll just slash FAB 1's tyres. Then you can be our guests forever."
A pair of blond eyebrows went north, "I think you mean hostages, Kayo. Still, I'm quite content to remain here a while longer, providing the boys don't mind. Speaking of which, where are they? I haven't seen any of them all day."
Kayo shrugged, "You'll learn to not ask such questions when you've been here a bit longer."
Penelope smirked and checked her watch before following Kayo upstairs, "Are you sure you don't want to wait? Only five minutes to go."
Kayo yawned loudly and shook her head, "Nah, I'm beat. Thanks for the offer though. Are we still on for Pilates in the morning?"
"F.A.B," Penelope replied, "In that case, goodnight."
"Night," Kayo replied, throwing Penelope a playful salute, "Sweet dreams."
A soft click filtered down to the lounge as two bedroom doors swung shut.
Then silence.
Virgil felt himself scowl at Kayo and Penelope's neglectfulness. If it wasn't for the neck brace restraining him, he'd go and slash FAB 1's tyres himself. And the cross-link wire in Thunderbird Shadow's engine to boot.
Where was Grandma when you needed her?
Four and a half minutes later, Alan was in the middle of slapping a wet flannel across Scott's face, which he'd conveniently forgotten to wring out, when Penelope suddenly cracked open her door and whisper-yelled down the corridor.
"Happy Birthday, Kayo!"
Five pairs of eyes flew open in horror. Almost immediately, John leapt up from the sofa he was draped across and groped madly for his phone, swearing loudly when he mistyped his password.
"It can't be," Scott whispered, checking the date on his own phone before counting desperately on his fingers.
The expression of terror that was rapidly making itself at home on John's face confirmed that, oh yes, it most definitely was.
June the twentieth. Kayo's birthday. Otherwise known as Doomsday.
They'd managed to forget Kayo's birthday.
"Shit."
Alan looked at Gordon.
Gordon looked at John.
John looked at Virgil.
Virgil looked at Scott.
Scott looked at Celery.
Celery looked at Squeaky Shark.
"Shit, shit, shit."
The sound of footsteps coming up from the kitchen did little to distract the five brothers from their impending funerals.
"H'evenin', chaps!" Parker chirped as he materialised with a heavily laden tray, "M'lady dropped a 'int that it was my turn to cook tonight. As it's pretty late, I'm afraid it's nothin' fancy."
Scott didn't even blink as five plates of beans on toast were set down in front of them.
He was going to die.
They were all going to die.