Chapter 71.
Had he not of taken over International Rescue, Scott would have become a firefighter.
Ironic really, considering his life already revolved around putting out fires. And not just the hot kind that chewed through combustible material like Gordon at a pizza party.
If there was one thing Scott was ridiculously well-versed in, it was dealing with problems on the fly. While he couldn't always solve the problems he was presented with, he could always be counted on to deal with them.
He could still recall the day he'd first become aware of this innate skill. A humid Monday in late August of fifty-one. He'd been in the middle of juggling several important phone calls and signing a cheque for the down payment on Gordon's braces. Alan and Virgil had both wandered into the room with the tell-tale signs of chicken pox. John had recoiled in such horror that he'd tripped clean over his feet and smashed into their grandmother's favourite vase, which also happened to be a fifth-generation family heirloom. As the cherry on the shit sundae, the water company had then got in touch to rant about a payment that was three days overdue.
Scott had surveyed the scene with the calmness of a monk. The phone had been switched to voicemail, a cheque signed, two brothers quarantined and dosed up with paracetamol, a vase hastily superglued back together, another brother suitably chastised for his clumsiness, and an overdue bill paid.
Contrary to popular belief, Scott was quite capable of keeping his emotions in check when under stress. He just needed the right environmental conditions; a south easterly breeze, prolonged high tide, low humidity, and a waning crescent moon to name a few.
Like most of the metaphorical fires Scott spent his days extinguishing, the new one he found himself faced with involved a brother. A blond one, to be precise. Although, surprisingly, not Gordon. No, he'd made himself quite at home on a comfy patch of grass on the perimeter of the polo pitch, an embarrassingly large pile of snacks stored safely in his lap. For once, he found himself far away from the epicentre of the ongoing trouble his family seemed to be cursed with.
Scott, meanwhile, was busy trying to encourage Alan to pull his pants down.
Naturally, his request was met with significant resistance of both the physical and verbal kind.
"Alan, how am I supposed to gauge how bad it is if you won't even let me look?" Scott grouched, handing Cosmos's reins to a thoroughly amused Virgil, "Come on, it's not like I haven't seen your backside before."
"Yeah, when I was a kid!" Alan snapped, swiping at the seat of his trousers in a way that reminded him of his doomed date with Kayo, "I'm fine, honestly."
Scott sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. They'd been in the middle of mounting Dotty's horses when a kamikaze wasp had taken offense at Alan's existence and divebombed him, dodging flailing arms and slapping hands to land an expertly timed sting square on the derriere of International Rescue's youngest member.
According to Virgil, people could be divided into three categories when dealing with a possible wasp attack. The Casual Swiper, The Stay-Stiller, and the All-Out Panicker. Scott and Virgil were manly enough to not care about getting stung, while John and Gordon were un-manly enough to not care about the food they often ended up abandoning every time something yellow and buzzing was in the vicinity.
"Scott, leave him be," John sighed, tightening his grip on Inka's reins, "I'm sure he'll be fine. Alan, just let us know if it starts to tingle or go numb, okay?"
Alan bit his lip and braced himself against Dala's neck, "It started tingling about five minutes ago. I thought that was normal?"
Virgil's eyes widened as he started fossicking through one of the small saddlebags he'd attached to Zantor's saddle. John had curtly informed him that non-tack items were strictly prohibited under polo rules, but nothing got between Virgil Tracy and his trusty first aid kit.
"I've got some hydrocortisone cream in here somewhere," Virgil muttered, "Though I've not used it in a while, so don't know how much or how little we'll need."
"What does the label say?" John asked, hissing in annoyance when Inka tried to snatch at some grass.
Virgil frowned and squinted at the text on the back of the tube, "If unconscious, seek medical attention."
Scott's eyes rolled so far back they almost got lost inside his skull.
"I'm fine, honestly," Alan insisted, swinging onto Dala and squeaking in pain when his butt made contact with the saddle, "Seriously guys, let me be the judge of my own health for once."
The look of irritation on Scott's face showed that nothing would please him less, but time was unfortunately not on their side. Penelope had just announced their names over the tannoy and the crowd was going wild.
John squared his shoulders and tried to suppress the wave of nervous sickness he could feel bubbling in his stomach. He'd spent a couple of minutes reading up on the rules of polo while the others had been tacking up, but knew his knowledge was substandard at best.
Thankfully, they had EOS.
"Okay team, listen up!" EOS barked, her tone similar to that of a school sports coach, "Polo is quite simple to understand. Two teams of four players try and hit a ball through goalposts stationed at opposing ends of the field. Teams switch ends every time a goal is scored to equal out ground and weather advantages. A match is comprised of four chukkas, each of which lasts for seven and a half minutes. Chukkas are separated by three-minute intervals except at half time, which lasts for five. Players fight for control of the ball by riding their opponents off or by hooking their mallets. A player riding in the opposite direction may only hit the ball with the corresponding forehand or backhand of their rival. Any questions?"
John paled and shared a look of hopeless confusion with Alan.
"Yeah, just one," Virgil began, "How dangerous is polo compared to other sports?"
"Oh, very dangerous," EOS replied, clearly unconcerned by the weight of her words, "Casualties to both horse and rider are practically customary. I don't have access to any up to date figures, but the most common cause of rider death is being trampled, according to local news reports dating back over the last decade anyway."
Scott felt himself die a little as he glanced at Alan's rather squashable form.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Penelope's crisp voice danced through the air as the Tracys emerged onto the pitch, "It is with great pleasure that I present today's rival team. Originally hailing from The United States, you probably know them as the pilots of the renowned Thunderbird crafts. Some of you may have even had the pleasure of meeting them in person. When not embarking on dangerous rescues, these boys devote much of their spare time to supporting charitable endeavours, just like the one we're running today. All proceeds from this match will be donated straight to the Todos Juntos Children's Trust, which provides free dental care to underprivileged children here in Buenos Aires."
A polite round of applause rippled throughout the crowd…
…which was nothing compared to the mad cheers that erupted when Penelope commenced introductions.
"Player One for International Rescue is none other than the great Scott Tracy!" she began, her voice rising in excitement, "A gifted pilot and equally gifted rider, Scott is the glue that holds both International Rescue and his family together. I speak from experience when I also say that his cooking is second to none."
Scott took one hand off his reins and waved confidently at the hordes of madly cheering people.
"Player Two for International Rescue is Virgil Tracy," Penelope continued, the smile in her voice evident, "Virgil is an accomplished medic and engineer, and possesses the broadest skillset of all of International Rescue's operatives."
John made a mental note to slash FAB 1's tyres as soon as the match was over.
"A skillset that isn't limited to just work, mind you," Penelope continued, oblivious to the peril her car was in, "Virgil is also a talented pianist and artist. For those of you taking notes, his favourite colour is green."
The screams from the stands reached eardrum-shattering level.
"International Rescue's third player is the famous John Tracy," Penelope yelled, fighting to project her voice over the nearly hysterical crowd, "John is the man responsible for coordinating all of International Rescue's missions and is most likely the person you'll end up talking to should you ever find yourself in a pickle. If his ability to multitask in zero gravity doesn't impress you, then his linguistic skills will. To date, he's fluent in over a dozen languages."
"Marry me!" a voice from the crowd bellowed. John couldn't tell if the person was male or female.
Penelope cleared her throat awkwardly, "And last, but certainly not least, Player Four for International Rescue is Alan Tracy. One of the youngest astronauts currently on active duty and an authority on all things interstellar, Alan is International Rescue's very own spaceman. When not blasting into orbit, he enjoys sleeping, playing video games, and stealing his brother's snacks."
A low rumble of amusement rippled through the audience. Alan felt his cheeks catch fire.
"He's also one of the only people alive to have successfully landed on Halley's Comet," Penelope added, smiling when the crowd exchanged their murmurs of mirth for gasps of admiration, "With precision flight skills as good as his, I can assure you that I certainly wouldn't want to take him on in a sport that relies heavily on hand-eye coordination."
At the other end of the pitch, the home team exchanged nervous glances from atop their mounts.
"Before we start," Penelope continued, "I would like to take this opportunity to remind everyone of the dual purpose of today's match. Aside from raising money for charity, it is also to commemorate the birthday of International Rescue's Head of Security, Miss Kayo Kyrano. Today's match is hosted in her honour, and I hope you will all join me in wishing her a very happy birthday."
The smug smile Kayo directed down at the Tracys as Penelope finally relinquished the microphone was downright sinister. While Scott and Alan were too busy interacting with the crowd to notice, it took every ounce of John's willpower to not give her the finger.
Ever observant, Virgil attempted to diffuse the situation with humour.
"When killing with kindness doesn't work, use a polo mallet," he suggested, swinging his own for emphasis whilst eyeballing the home team, "Results may vary."