Interlude: Alan
There was a day he vaguely remembered from years and years ago. It was sunny but not summer time and someone had taken him down to the pond at the back of the farm to catch tadpoles. At their instruction and cautioned to be gentle he cupped his hands, scooped up some water and a tadpole was placed there. He remembered the wiggly little black and brown blob squirming against his palms, ticklish but also slimy. He'd danced in place, shrieking for the sheer delight of the weird sensations until he couldn't stand it anymore, dropped everything back into the pond and wiped his hands on the denim overalls that someone said made him look like Huckleberry Finn.
His thoughts felt a lot like that tadpole right now, wriggling and slippery and so hard to hold. He had to be gentle otherwise they'd break, but if he didn't hold them they'd get away.
There was a room that he was in, there was a brother in the room with him and bad people outside that room. He could keep track of that but inside that room he kept losing track of himself, where he ended and the world began. The room itself wasn't the most defined object either, with walls that shimmered and a round hole that he was sure something not human was going to peek through any second now and he clutched his knife tighter at the thought of what that thing might be.
But he knew it wasn't his fault that any of this had happened. It was Their fault, the people outside, They did this. They hurt John. That fact was particularly upsetting.
Wait...
Who was John?
The figure at his side blinked into the darkness and raised a shaking hand to touch his head.
That must be John. John was hurt. He was angry that John was hurt. Who had hurt John? That's right, the bad people outside hurt John. He had to keep John safe.
"John? Alan?"
The voice tasted soft and fuzzy despite it's hard edges that grated on his ears.
"...EOS…?" The person who was John asked in return, tapping at his shoulder.
He lost track of the conversation at that point, quite sure the blue of his feet was melting into the grey-speckled tiles along with the sharp silver of the knife he held. He followed the line of the knife down to the point where the tip touched the grout between the tiles and idly scraped it over an unidentifiable smear of black on the tiles.
"Alan."
The Voice, weak and wobbly, called his name and he looked over at the source. Words were happening, dancing in the air around his head, but the sounds were meaningless and he looked blankly at the owner of The Voice who did have a name which he knew but it'd escaped him, a wriggly tadpole of a thought that had to be held gently but was so hard to hold onto. Blue touched blue and he considered the hand on his arm for what felt like a very long time. Then the hand touched his face and The Voice spoke Words sharpened into Commands. "Alan! We need to go to the lower landing pad!" Hard, well defined Words pelted him like stones. "We have to get out of here. Help me up!"
The words became stepping stones, a direct path forward. He had a Job To Do. He had Someone Who Needed Help. Alan clung to the task, let it sharpen his tattered focus down to a laser-like point of We Have a Situation. John had called in and ordered him to help John get down to the lower landing pad. Help John. Protect John. John is hurt.
Wait.
Outside the room was Them. The thought of those people made him clutch the knife closer.
They Hurt John.
Can't go outside. Have to protect John. John is hurt. They are outside.
Duty warred with Fear and Alan couldn't help the small noise of distress he made as the two concepts battled in his head- John says we have a situation but John is in danger. What was he supposed to do?
"We have to go." John told him. "Alan, we have to go, now, before the storm gets worse." The Voice turned into the cadence he heard on the radio. "Thunderbird Three, do you copy? We need to evacuate to the lower landing pad."
"F.A.B." The acknowledgement was the most natural thing in the world as he got to his feet. A mission from Thunderbird Five, see you in space.
Alan put down the knife- John says it's not standard issue Alan, can't carry that on a rescue- dragged the table out of the way, stooped and pulled a wobbly John to his feet. John's arm went around his shoulders and his arm went around John's waist. He stood with John for a moment, a long ingrained habit to pause to make sure the sudden change in position wasn't going to make his patient faint from positional hypotension and walked with him out of the room.
A/N: I'm back to work so I won't be able to post as often, but I will finish this story