Fork in the Road

By Sapphire

Disclaimer in chapter 1

Part 3 – Facing the Facts

The morning sun filtered through the curtains and directly onto Scott's bed. Scott sat with his back leaning against the headboard, arms wrapped around his legs, his chin resting on his knees.

He'd been awake for over an hour now, thinking through his options.

The first possibility was that he was going slowly – or maybe not quite so slowly – crazy. His mother was alive, living with them on Tracy Island, only he didn't remember it. The way he remembered it, they had moved here about a year or so after she had died. His father had wanted to get away from all memories of her, though how that was supposed to work with five small reminders of her running around in the backyard had been beyond Scott.

Jeff Tracy also had started working on his plans for International Rescue back then, and the island, which had been in the family's possession for generations – though never settled – had been perfect. He had met Brains at a conference in Paris – or was it Geneva? Scott wasn't sure, but it didn't really matter – and had immediately seen the asset his bright mind would be to his dream. Scott had been just glad that his father had found something to keep himself busy.

He himself had followed his own career with the Air Force, knowing that the skills he learned there would one day be useful to International Rescue. When the time came to come back to Tracy Island, he had not hesitated for a second, and he had not regretted it for a minute ever since. He felt privileged and honoured working for IR – there was no job in the world he would rather do.

Only, in all this, Joyce Tracy did not figure.

So, if she was real, and he just didn't remember her, but remembered instead a life without her, what did that make him?

Crazy.

Only, he didn't feel crazy. At least not right now. He was pretty sure the drug used to calm him down had lost its potency, as the cotton feeling he had had before was gone.

In fact, he felt pretty much like he had always felt, though, he had to admit, a little bit confused. However, this was to be expected given the situation.

Option B was that he was all right, everything he remembered was correct, only that that woman was some kind of impostor who somehow had brainwashed his father -- and who knew who else -- into believing that she was the one she claimed to be. International Rescue had had its run-ins with mind control in the past after all. Scott wouldn't put it beyond the Hood, their archenemy, to pull off something like this.

However, what he – the Hood – or she – the false Joyce Tracy – hoped to gain from that whole charade was beyond Scott.

Except maybe, to get International Rescue out of business.

The last option he could think of was that he was suffering from some weird kind of amnesia. That he had forgotten somehow that his mother was still alive and all memories pertaining to that fact had somehow be altered. He had never heard about such a kind of memory loss, but who was he to say that it didn't exist?

Either option, there was nothing to be gained from running around screaming and making everybody look at him funny. He had to find out what the heck was going on, which option was the correct one. And to do this, he needed more information.

He just had to treat it like any other rescue mission: Go, find out what the situation was, and then act accordingly.

Having reached this conclusion, he realized that he was hungry. He hadn't eaten anything yesterday, and breakfast felt like a very good idea right now.

Unfolding his long legs, he got off the bed and into the bathroom for a quick shower. While shaving he took a long look at himself in the mirror. As far as he could tell, he looked just the same way he always had, except for a large Band-Aid on his forehead. Carefully he peeled it off to see a small gash where he had hit his head. More a scratch than anything, though it did hurt some when he probed it carefully. He had had much worse than that before.

He dressed casually, then headed for the door, hopefully ready to face the world, whatever the world would bring.

Just then there was a short knock. The door opened before he could say a word and a head topped by bright red hair popped inside.

"Morning, Scott," his younger brother Gordon grinned. "Ready for breakfast?"

At twenty-four, Gordon Tracy still had a freckled, youngish face that was simply unable to tell a lie to anybody he knew, so Scott had no difficulties to see that the grin was a little bit forced.

"Morning, Gordo," Scott replied lightly as if nothing at all was wrong. "More than ready. Point me towards the coffee."

Gordon relaxed visibly and together they made their way towards the villa's kitchen from where the aroma of fresh coffee, fried bacon and eggs drifted. Keeping in step with Gordon, Scott looked around, noting immediately small changes to the decoration of the house. Passing by the living room, he saw a portrait of the family that included Joyce, beaming proudly at her husband and the five young men arranged around them. The portrait of Lady Penelope in the gallery was missing, replaced instead with one of Joyce. The whole place was set up as if operation cover up was in place. No hint anywhere that this was in fact International Rescue's headquarter.

Three points to the 'you are the one who is crazy' option. This wasn't a good start.

In the kitchen, he was greeted by Kyrano, his father's manservant, who was preparing breakfast. Kyrano gave him a concerned look and a forced smile, but didn't say a word, only handing him a plate where he placed bacon and eggs just the way Scott like it.

"Good morning, Kyrano," Gordon piped up, as he picked himself a plate and waited for his share of breakfast.

"Good morning, Master Gordon, Master Scott," Kyrano replied timidly.

It seemed that his father had given out a warning to everybody to be very careful around Scott. A sensible precaution if Scott indeed had gone around the bend. That didn't mean he had to like it, though there wasn't really anything he could do.

"Good morning, Kyrano," Scott replied, acting as if he hadn't noted anything amiss.

Together he and Gordon carried their plates to the dining room. At the large table Jeff already sat together with his 'wife' and their youngest son, Alan. Scott tensed up when he saw Joyce, but tried to cover it up. Still, he wasn't going to sit next to her, instead putting down his plate at the other end of the table. Jeff frowned at that, but seemed to decide to let it rest for the moment.

"Morning," Scott greeted everybody, thus avoiding to have to address his 'mother' directly and dug into his breakfast after pouring himself a cup of coffee, basically ignoring everybody.

For a moment nobody spoke a word.

Then Alan piped up, "Did you really deck father, Scott?"

Trust it to Alan to bring the topic up. Twenty-one years old, he acted more often than not as if he was still fourteen. Except when on the controls of Thunderbird 3, the big space rocket they used for space rescues. Even Scott had to admit that there Alan was as responsible as anybody of them when they were on a mission.

The whole round held its collective breath, obviously expecting Scott to react badly to the questions. Everybody except, of course, Alan who looked like he had no idea why his father scowled at him like that.

Scott decided to act as if Alan's question was the most natural in the world.

"Nah, not exactly 'deck him', Alan. More like hitting him accidentally while flaying around wildly with my arms. I'm sorry, father," he apologized once again turning to his father. After all, he really did feel bad about hitting him.

"It's okay, son," Jeff accepted the apology. "No serious harm done. I'll be as good as new in no time."

Jeff rubbed his chin, wincing slightly when he touched the bruise there.

After that the breakfast continued mostly in silence, everybody clearly still uncomfortable. Scott observed his family and noted with dismay that everybody seemed to react to Joyce as if it was the most natural thing in the world that she was sitting there next to his father. He allowed himself to take a closer look at her and had to admit that for all intents and purposes, she did look and act like the mother he had lost so long ago. Small mannerisms he had all but forgotten came back to him, like the way she added so much milk to her coffee that the beverage was almost white, and how she cut up the toast into narrow stripes before dipping them into the egg yolk of her fried eggs.

Halfway through breakfast, Virgil showed up, sitting down next to Alan and Gordon. He, like the others, cast Scott a questioning look but didn't say a word instead digging into his breakfast with gusto. Virgil never had been a morning person and it was no use to engage him in a conversation unless he had had his coffee fix.

This left of the brothers John, the middle brother. Normally John would be up in Thunderbird 5, International Rescue's private space station, but given the situation of having seen no sign of IR so far, all bets were off. At the moment Scott didn't want to ask any questions but he filed John's absence away, to be investigated later.

Also notably absent was Grandma, who had moved to Tracy Island less than a year ago, but then Scott remembered that she and Tin-Tin, Kyrano's beautiful daughter, were together on a trip through Europe. Grandma Tracy, despite her advanced years, had still the heart for travel, so Tin-Tin had volunteered to come along to keep an eye on her. Not that grandma had minded. She loved the young woman like one of her own grandchildren and all were sure that when they would return there would be exciting tales and piles of shopping.

Of course, that was from his own memories, the memories that still told him that Joyce Tracy was dead, so he didn't know how much stock he could but on them.

Last on the list of missing persons was Brains. Even though Brains spent most of his days in one of the many labs, he usually made sure that he took breakfast together with the family. He was part of the family in a way. And Scott was sure that he had been on the island when he had taken that fall that started it all.

So, where was Brains?

Was there a Brains at all?

And without Brains, did International Rescue even exist?

There was still some bacon left on his plate, but suddenly Scott didn't feel hungry anymore. The food churned in his stomach and for a second he thought he might be sick. Too many things pointed to the fact that the last thirteen years of his life had been some kind of dream or something, that many of the things that he remembered were simply not true.

He pushed his chair away from the table and got up. For a moment at a loss at what to do, he stood frozen to the spot, looking at all the faces staring at him. Then he turned and ran out of the room.

"Scott," he heard his father call, but he ignored it

He had to find out if there was such a thing as International Rescue.

Or if he was totally and truly utterly mad.

ooooo

Instinctively, Scott aimed his steps towards Thunderbird 1, his beloved rocket plane that International Rescue used for reconnaissance purposes. There was probably no faster machine to be found on this planet. If pushed, she could make it from their base in the middle of the Pacific to Europe on the other side of the globe in less than one hour at a top speed of over Mach 20. Riding her was in his books the best thing about IR, next to saving lives, of course.

There were several ways to access Thunderbird 1's hangar, the fastest one through a hidden door panel in his father's study.

Scott was just about to enter the office when he felt a hand landing on his shoulder.

"What the matter with you, Scott?" Virgil asked, spinning his older brother around. He looked concerned, but at the same time angry enough to spit nails.

Scott shook off Virgil's hand, moving further into the room, only to be stopped once again by his brother's hand on his arm.

"Scott, talk to me. What is going on?"

This time, Scott felt, Virgil wouldn't let go without receiving an answer.

He turned, facing his brother. "I don't know, Virg. I think I'm going quite mad. I have to check something out."

"What are you talking about, Scott? Dad said something about you not knowing mom, but I don't understand. I want to help you."

Ah, good old reliable Virgil. He always had been the negotiator in the family, the one who went out of his way to smoothe ruffled feathers and calm ragged nerves.

"I don't understand it either. I ... I don't know what's wrong with me. Let me check this out, and then I might have some answers."

Virgil hesitated for a second, then nodded, released Scott's arm and stepped aside.

His father's office looked just like Scott remembered if, except again for the absence of Lady Penelope's picture. In its place hung a portrait of Joyce, smiling down at the desk.

Scott stepped up to his own portrait, reaching for the two wall lamps that flanked it. His fumbling fingers searched for the release switches that rotated the whole panel.

Nothing was there. Once again, he checked, in case he had missed the spot at his first try. He pulled on the lamps, but they were attached tightly to the wall, moving not a bit.

This proved it. There was no doubt anymore. Scott always had strongly believed in empirical proof and there is was.

He had gone crazy.

Moaning softly, he leaned against the wall, and then slid down, until he sat on the floor. He wanted to curl into a tight ball, locking out the shards of what was his life and never come back up again.

"Scott," Virgil knelt next to his brother, placing a concerned hand on Scott's knee. "Speak to me. Please."

"I've gone mad," Scott said in a whisper. "That's the only explanation. I'm totally mad."

"Scott. Why ...? What's going on? Please. Tell me."

"Everything here is wrong, Virg. Everything. Mom is alive. Brains is missing. All pictures of Lady Penelope are gone. And ... where is International Rescue? Nothing is like it used to be."

He looked up pleadingly to his brother who had listened to his growing list looking more and more confused.

"What ... who is International Rescue?"

That cinched it. So far, everything had been only empirical evidence that somehow could have been explained away in some way if he only tried hard enough. Mom was alive – she still could be an impostor. Brains was missing – hell, he might be working on something and forgot what time it was. Lady Penelope – who knows, maybe her portraits had been taken of for some cleaning. The lamp switches – maybe Dad had changed the arrangements but had forgotten to tell him. All explainable in a fashion.

But now his own brother and best friend was looking at him as he had in fact gone mad telling him that he didn't know anything about International Rescue.

That was the final proof he had needed.

He was mad.

He wrapped his arms around his chest, hugging himself. Slowly he began to rock back and forth as if this repetitive movement could somehow lock out the world around him. A tear started to travel down his cheek. He didn't know what to do.

Tbc

So, Scott has hit rock bottom. Don't know why I do that to the poor boy, but it's fun. Next chapter we'll go someplace else.

Reviews:

Claudette: Now that you seen the outside of the bedroom, what do you think?

Race's Girl: Lots of action in the later chapters, I promise. See review comments in chapter 2 for the big 'Mrs Tracy name' debate.

Gismo: The story is complete and I plan on posting a chapter a day. My beta is still working on the later parts, but she should be done soon. Personally I hate it when somebody starts posting a promising story, but never finishes it. That's why I promised myself never to start posting anything unless the story is done.

rozzy07: Answers are forthcoming in chapter 4 - Solutions, however, have to wait a little bit longer.

Annica: Grüße aus Frankfurt ... What gave you the impression that I'm a Scott fan? ;) What's not to love about him? With that great voice and his perfect looks ... Though I do love the other boys as well.