Claudette: In reply to your questions about the mixed verse, you mostly got it right. I prefer the television's canon, because there's so much more about all the brothers, not just Alan, with snippets of John. Also, as you suspected, the marionettes are just too . . . calm. They never seem to get worked up, and they would definitely never cry. Although, I have a suspicion that movie-verse Gordon would have quite a lot to say about that, too. It's just that in the movie, you can see the adrenaline working, you can see them worrying, and you can see them staring death in the face. That's something that just doesn't happen in the series.

Disclaimer: As much as I would love to own our boys in blue, I don't. I make no profits from this, and I hope to gain nothing more than to make people happy with it and, hopefully, a bit of concrit.

Chapter 3

The rubble and devastation seemed endless, as though nothing could ever be done to remove it. A permanent blot on the pristine, snow covered landscape.

They were still finding people alive, even now, two days later. Although people had run for the safety of the woods, not everybody had made it, and had been caught in the showed of falling masonry. It was one of these people whom Alan was now trying to save, whilst Scott was busy on the other side of the rubble, both of them working mechanically, as if on autopilot. Three fire men, who had arrived on the scene half an hour after the collapse, had been acting like personal aides to him, staying by him to help sift through the wreckage, whilst other teams had been deployed elsewhere. Currently, the man they were trying to save was hidden under an ambulance, which had been apparently buried as the first stones fell.

"We've nearly reached you, James, so we just want you to get as far back under that ambulance as you can, in case any stones fall through. Got that?"

"I've got it," came the muffled reply. So far as Alan could understand, James had broken his ankle, or at least twisted it. His companion had been hit on the head by a falling chunk of plaster, and had not regained consciousness since.

"Just this one last stone," Alan said, turning his attention to the firemen, "and we should have them out." His voice sounded hollow and lifeless, echoing around his head as though he was in a nightmare. At least there was daylight, now, so they could clearly see what they were doing, and at least the fires had been extinguished, although the burning pyre had put up an incredible fight.

The fire men heaved their weight and, slowly, the blackened stone moved. They had not moved it far before there was a cry of relief from under the wrecked vehicle, and a pale hand was thrust through the gap. Setting the stone down carefully, in case it set off a miniature landslide, Alan grabbed the hand and pulled, clearing away the smaller, dusty pieces of charcoal and twisted metal which were still trapping the man.

With a few more tugs, the man was free. He grabbed Alan by the shoulders, and, although he was shaking and in dire need of medical treatment, the relief and thankfulness in his eyes shone almost as brightly as the sun.

"Thank you International Rescue, thank you! You saved my life! If you ever, ever need anything . . ."

"Hang on there, sir, you need to find a doctor, and we'll rescue your friend . . ."

The man, still singing International Rescue's praises, allowed himself to be half carried away by one of the firemen, as Alan wriggled under the burnt out ambulance to find the other prisoner. It was dark; almost pitch black, except for where a ray of light poked through from the hole Alan had just created. Thrusting his weary, blistered hands around in the darkness, Alan found the limp form of the driver of the ambulance, and grabbed it by the waist. He made the man still had a pulse, and then checked for any broken bones, just as he had been taught by Virgil, in what seemed like another life. Thankfully, there were none, so Alan struggled back up through the hole, pushing the limp driver before him. As he pulled himself clear, his watch buzzed.

"Yes?"

Johns face appeared, deep grey bags under his eyes. His cheeked were red and puffy, and his blonde hair was unkempt and floppy. In the small corner of his mind that was not crippled with shock or centred on pulling survivors from the rubble, Alan wondered how bad he must look, if John was such a mess, and he hadn't even been here. Still, what did appearances matter, now?

"They've found one of them. He's right on the other side. Scott's already there."

"One of who?"

John shut his eyes and looked away. As he did so, Alan suddenly realised which 'them' his brother was talking about.

"Oh!"

Alan felt his legs give way beneath him, and he fell to the ground. The rubble bit in to his skin, but he didn't notice it. Staring in to space as cold flakes started to fall again, slowly, he felt a strong hand on his shoulder. A tiny sound came out of his mouth, and he shook his head, although no question had been asked, confused and, for some reason, more scared than he had ever been in his life. He began to shiver uncontrollably.

"What is it, Gordon mate?"

His muscles tensed, again an involuntary shiver.

"They found them." His voice was small and lost, like a child he could not find his parents, and had been approached by some friendly stranger who was just trying to help. The words choked his throat and he swallowed, unable to breathe properly.

"Gordon? Found who?"

Alan couldn't answer. He opened his mouth, but no sound was forthcoming. He leaned forward, staring at the ground, and covered his mouth with his hand.

"Gordon?"

It was only then that Alan realised what the fireman, whose name he could not remember to save his life, despite having been told it at least seven times, was calling him. He looked up at the man, and finally words began to tumble out of his mouth.

"No . . . I'm Alan . . . my brother . . . he's Gordon . . . I'm sorry, I didn't realise I said . . . they've found . . . I can't look, I can't!" the last part came out in an anguished wail, and he buried his head in his hands. The firemen looked at each other, frowning. Sure, he was young, and he hadn't seemed to be completely alert, but the cause of the sudden change worried them.

"Who've they found?"

"One of my . . . my buddies. They found him. I can't look."

At last, they understood. The snow was falling harder now, and the pine trees had become little more than a dark, blurred outline. A suggestion, rather than anything else. The black rubble, too, was becoming coated in a thin layer of the frozen stuff, making it difficult for the rescue workers, dotted here and there like bees swarming around hives. The man from International Rescue slumped, and the fireman whose hand had been on his shoulder managed to catch him just as he keeled sideways.

"Hey, Gordon buddy, when was the last time you got any rest?"

Alan opened his mouth to reply, but he couldn't remember. He certainly hadn't rested here. People needed rescuing! You can't just rescue three, take a kip, and then rescue three more, because by that time, the second three might be dead. Before this, there had been . . . there had been the burning building . . . hadn't they come straight from another rescue? Something to do with a mine . . . or had they been home between that mission and this mission?

It was no good. He shook his head, indicating ignorance, but he suddenly realised that he was too tired to talk.

"Okay, Gordon, let's find you somewhere to rest before you collapse."

"Why," he struggled to find the words as the large man lifted him to his feet. "Why d'you keep calling me Gordon? Gords . . . he's dead . . . when the building fell."

"You said your name was Gordon, mate. That's what you've been answering to for the last couple of days."

"Did I?"

Alan stumbled, slipping on the new snow as it turned to slush around their feet. His limbs felt like led, as though they were seizing up a little more with every step he took. He could feel his eyelids drooping, and everything in front of his eyes began to look like a wall of white fuzz. He turned his head, trying to shelter his face from the harsh white snow as it grew thicker and thicker, pelting down from the skies.

"Where're we going?"

"Over to the other side. They've got some tents up for the rescue workers to use."

Alan stopped dead in his tracks, and then stepped back, a small burst of adrenaline returning.

"Oh, no, not over there. That's where they found my buddies. I can't go that way."

"Maybe you just ought to take a look, mate."

His watch buzzed again, and again, Alan answered it, revealing the tired face of John.

"Where are you? The tracking system says you've hardly moved. Scott needs you, Al."

"I'm . . . I'm just . . ." Unable to think of an excuse, and especially not with John looking so worried. He shrugged miserably. "There were people trapped. We needed to get them out. I'll get there now."

"FAB. Hey, Alan?"

"Yeah?"

"Look after yourself, won't you?"

Struggling forward through the snow to where Scott probably was, and ignoring the confused glances of the firemen, Alan wondered what had made John say the last sentence. Did he really look like he was in that much of a state? Probably. It wouldn't surprise him. His uniform was barely recognisable now, apart from the sash. The hat had been lost somewhere, pulling out the dead body of a little girl. He had not washed, either, since before first arriving at the place, so he was covered in various layers of grime, each one dampened by falling snow, and then built upon by yet another layer of ash and dust.

It didn't matter anyway, Alan thought, as he stumbled half blind through the beating snow, followed closely by the fireman, who kept trying to support him. Gordon and Virgil were dead.

He couldn't bear to think of what life without them would be like. No more practical jokes. No more live music. Nobody to confide in. Well, there was Tin-Tin, obviously, but she just wasn't the same. She didn't have the memories.

It took him ten minutes, and more than ten falls and stumbles on the slippery remains, before he reached the other side, staggering around, looking for Scott. As his worry increased, when he couldn't find them, he hardly even noticed when the vicious attack of snow began to abate.

"Are you looking for your friend?"

Alan turned quickly, almost losing balance, to see a young nurse standing in front of him, wrapped in a heavy coat.

"Where is he?"

"He's in the tents. I'll show you."

The woman led Alan through the snow away from the rubble, on to snow which, although it had once been pristine and crispy, was now more like slush, as a result of the tramp, tramp, tramp of countless pairs of feet running this way and that, clearing away the destruction, saving lives, and removing the bodies of those who had not been saved. He ducked in to one of the quickly erected tents with a large, red cross on the side, and looked around. Sitting on a small camp bed was Scott, looking as though he'd never heard of 'clean' or 'sleep', cradling Virgil in his lap.

Alan stumbled over to his brother, and collapsed on to the camp bed beside Scott, and looked down at Virgil. His face, beneath the soot, was as white as the falling snow outside, and his uniform was torn and singed. Alan had seen many dead people in life, but they had mostly been strangers, resembling larger-than-life mannequins more than anything else. Limp, miserable forms which flopped around and were there to be taken back, if possible, to their weeping families. It shouldn't be the Tracy family who had to end up weeping.

"They haven't found Gordon yet."

"No."

Alan reached out to touch the frozen cheek of his dead brother, but recoiled before touching the actual skin, scared, terrified, in case . . . in case of what? He couldn't say.

Scott hadn't even looked up when Alan had walked in, but he looked up now. His face was devoid of any readable emotion, and his eyes seemed to be hollow pits, reflecting a dull nothingness, stretching out for eternity.

"I guess it had to happen someday, huh?"

To that, any reply the youngest Tracy may have had stuck in his throat. Tears, which should have been quick to come, seemed to have turned to ice, leaving him to blink stupidly, as though he were emerging from a dark tunnel and having a bright light shone straight in to his eyes. His head began to swim, and the world around him span like disco lights. Beside him, he heard a choke.

"Alan! Alan, he's . . ."

There was another choke, and Virgil convulsed. A dark trickle of red blood, which Alan was sure had not been there before, ran from the corner of his mouth.

"Go and get a doctor!"

Pushing himself to his feet, Alan ran for the door, grabbing hold of the tent flap to stop himself from falling over as the world beneath him seemed to toss and churn wildly. He grabbed the nearest person to him – the nurse who had shown him where the tent was, and who had been talking to another colleague, voice raised against the howl of the wind.

"My buddy . . . he isn't dead. Go and get a doctor."

He saw her open her mouth, and knew that a stream of questions was flowing out, but he hardly heard what she was saying as he ducked back in to the tent. Whatever she wanted to know, it didn't matter. The doctors could ask it. Right now . . . he just needed sleep.

He hadn't been able to sleep, as it turned out. Not for another seven hours. Instead, he had survived on coffee and adrenaline, first as crowds of doctors had swamped the little tent, doing their best to revive Virgil, and then as Gordon had been dragged from the rubble, clutching the dead woman so tightly that, had he not moaned every time they touched him, Alan would have thought that rigor mortis had set in. It was only once he had flown Thunderbird 2 home and landed her that he fell asleep, still sitting at the controls.

"You're worrying again," a voice said behind him. Startled, Alan looked around to see Tin-Tin emerging from the trees. Her dark her tumbled around her shoulders, and her bare feet were muddied, as though she had been wandering through the trees for hours.

"Grandma calls me a permanent worry."

Sitting down beside him, Tin-Tin watched him carefully as he stared out at the vast ocean which encircled their island home. It was flat calm, and the moon above them left a long, silver reflection in the tiny ripples. Here and there, the bright stars winked in and out as sea birds crossed in front of them.

"I've been looking for you since mid-day."

"You shouldn't have bothered."

"You left your watch on the kitchen worktop. We were worried."

"I don't see why."

"I wish you would stop being so difficult!"

Once, Alan would have either laughed at that, or walked off in a huff. Now, he just sat there, still staring out at the sea, without replying. Tin-Tin sighed, and started playing with the simple silver ring which rested on her little finger.

"Why won't you talk to me about it?" she asked eventually. In the background, midges were buzzing. Slapping one out of the air as it hovered in front of her face, Tin-Tin looked at Alan, waiting for his answer. When it came, it was barely above a whisper, but it was still sharp and cutting.

"You wouldn't understand."

As she could find no adequate reply to that, Tin-Tin settled for frowning, but it was useless. Alan didn't even look at her. He didn't even move as one of the midges landed on his leg. Surprisingly, after a long, drawn out silence, it was Alan who broke the freeze.

"I'm sorry, Tin-Tin, but I just don't see how talking to anybody will help me. It won't solve anything."

"I find it always helps if there's somebody to share with."

"I'm not you."

"As if we can't tell!"

This, too, evoked no response. Tin-Tin sighed. She had tried everything since Alan had fallen in to his deep depression, but nothing she had tried would get him to emerge from his shell. Now, she was trying to make him angry, so that at least he would shout it out, but even that didn't seem to be working. Part of her wanted to keep trying, but the rest of her was screaming just to give up. Alan had always been difficult, and just because she wanted him to do something, even if she wished it with all her heart, it never meant that he would do it.

"Alan?"

"Tin-Tin."

Her hand found his, but when she tried to take it, there was no reaction. Since the dreadful mission, Tin-Tin had found that her favourite Tracy relived over and over again, and when he had become so deeply entrenched in his nightmares as he was now, there was very little she could do to make him snap out of it. Remorsefully, she gave him a quick kiss on his cheek, and stood up.

"If you want me, I'll be in the lounge until the sun comes up."

She turned slowly and, wishing desperately that he would call after her, would open out to her, she walked back in to the shadowy darkness of the trees, where the moon and starlight was obscured. When she looked back, Alan was still sitting motionless, staring in to the dark abyss of the night.

As soon as he thought she was out of earshot, Alan slumped in to the sand, and screamed.