"You look just like your father."

He's heard it all his life. From distant relatives gathered at the farmhouse for Thanksgiving or Christmas. From the people in the small Kansas town where he grew up. From folks who knew Dad in business or in the Air Force or just anywhere Jeff Tracy had left a mark.

But now, eight years out from their father's disappearance, the comments had tapered off. Now that he was his own man, out from under his father's lengthy shadow, people talked about him. Scott Tracy. CEO of Tracy Aerospace, commander of International Rescue, pilot of Thunderbird One—he was known more for those titles, rather than being his father's son.

That's why the comment threw him a bit.

"You look just like your father did at your age."

The lady he was helping climb over the debris left by a tornado strike said it softly, almost to herself, but Scott caught it.

"A lot of people say that, ma'am." Scott gave her a 1000-watt smile. "Careful now. The debris here is sharp." He paused, pulling a splintered two-by-four out of the way. She stepped down gingerly, wincing from the pain in her ankle. He had wrapped it as best he could in the situation, but it was plain the issue was more than a simple wrap could handle. That wasn't her only injury; she'd broken a bone in her opposite arm. He'd dealt with that with an inflatable splint and a sling. It made climbing out of her hall closet more difficult.

"Did you know my father?" he asked as he helped her limp beyond the debris.

"Heh." Her smile was both fond and self-deprecating. "No. I never had the privilege. I was what you might call a … a groupie. Or maybe a fan."

"Why am I not surprised that my dad had fans," he quipped, waving an arm to catch the eye of an EMT. He eased her to the clear ground outside the demolished house and squatted beside her.

"I had posters of him plastered on my bedroom walls in college, and even wrote fan fiction about him." She blushed. "I'm afraid I had a rather, um, vivid imagination about him. Even though I knew he was married with kids."

Scott's mouth dropped open a little at this admission, but before he could say anything, she looked away and started picking little pieces of debris off with her good hand. "The fandom was gutted at his death."

Raising her head, she looked him in the eye. "I'm so sorry."

He couldn't decide what to say. It had been years since anyone had tried to comfort him with those words and they might not be necessary, not with the surprising information Brains had teased out of Braman. He'd wanted to ask more about the "vivid imagination" she'd mentioned.

Instead, he went with the tried and true. "Thank you for your sympathy. I appreciate it."

As rhe EMTs moved in and Scott relinquished his place, she gave his arm one last tug. "You're the one with fans now!"

When she had his attention, she gave him a grin. "My son has posters of you and Thunderbird One all over his room." She glanced back at the pile of rubble. "Or, he had."

Scott's eyes widened at the thought of a child still being in there. She saw it and hastened to reassure him, shaking her head vehemently.

"Oh, no. No. He's not there. He's safe. He's with his father for the weekend. Shared custody sucks sometimes but…" Another glance at the ruined home. "This is one time it didn't."

Relieved, Scott nodded, smiling. "Thanks. That's good to know. Now, I've got to get back to my team. Good luck, and tell your son I said, 'Hi'."

"I will!" she called, as he trotted off to find Virgil.

As he went, he touched the comms button on his shoulder. "Thunderbird Five?"

"Go ahead, Scott."

"The last victim on this cul-de-sac is rescued. Where do they want us now?"

"A high-rise building in the city was hit by the tornado. The power's out and more than one emergency stairwell is blocked. They need help getting people off the upper floors."

"Tell them we're on our way." He paused. "And John? No hurry but can you or EOS run a search for Jeff Tracy fan fiction?"