Title: Sometimes, Even a Herd of Thundering Wildebeast is a Blessing
Fandom: Battle of the Planets
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Battle of the Planets belongs to Sandy Frank, Gatchaman belongs to Tatsunko. I make no money out of this.
Summary: Anderson looks at one of his darkest times, and reflects that even things that irritate you the most become a blessing when it seems they may be lost forever.
Author Notes: A short vignette wherein Anderson has to deal with possible loss of his wards. I actually wrote this to try to get some back story for my longer fic, "Generations" and my take on the BotP universe.
Six Years Ago
Security Chief Anderson stood looking out of the window, the silence of Camp Parker, for once, no relief. It was too quiet. He found himself missing the noise that normally accompanied his days, and found himself wishing for the umpteenth time that he had not been so harsh with the makers of the usual noise.
He turned back from the window to see his PA entering, a cup of coffee in her hand. "Have you heard anything?" he asked. She shook her head.
"The doctors will come to you first, Sir," she said, putting the coffee on his desk, and looking at the pictures there. She knew it would take a lot of torture for her boss to admit how much he loved his wards – and even more for him to admit, publically, that the first thing that she had to pack into the secure briefcase whenever they moved from place to place were a series of photographs and albums.
She watched now as he picked up the coffee and took it, and the briefcase, to a low table near the window. Watched as he sat and opened the briefcase, taking out the albums. And couldn't watch as he suddenly buried his head in his hands.
Quietly she left the room. She knew that the coffee would grow cold – like the other cups she had taken him over the past two days. And yet, she kept taking them, varying the intervals, so he could never know when she would appear.
It was so quiet. And she found that she missed the noise that usually abounded in the complex. A prayer rose to her lips, begging that the noise would be back.
One Week Previously
"You know it must be done soon. They're at the optimal age for the cerebonics to connect. Look at how Tiny Harper has done. It's been, what, five years since his – and he's fine."
Anderson paced back and forward. "I know," he said, "but this time it's different. I didn't raise Tiny Harper."
"Sentiment, Anderson?"
He whirled to face his accuser. "Yes, Conway. Sentiment. Those three were entrusted to me by their parents. They trusted me to keep them safe."
"And yet, those same parents knew that their children would be part of this programme. The decision is no longer yours, Anderson. I'll arrange for Mark, Jason and Alexandra to be implanted tomorrow. Today, you should give them some explainations."
"Explainations? How am I to explain to three 12 year olds that we're going to implant something into their brain? Tell me that, Conway!"
"You will do it the same way you did with Harper. Stop thinking of them as children, Anderson. They're warriors; and the Earth needs them."
Anderson finally looked at the other man, as distant sounds of voices and feet grew louder. Conway winced as the noise grew louder "Your herd of thundering wildebeast have arrived, Anderson. It's time."
"And when, Conway, will they have time to be children?" he asked softly, pushing past the other man and leaving the room.
One Week Later
Anderson stood in the hospital room, the sounds of the monitors tearing through his brain. He looked at the small forms in the beds before him, and felt his heart grow heavy.
"Is there any change?" he asked the Doctor next to him.
"None, Sir. They are all satisfactory."
"Satisfactory? If they're satisfactory, why haven't they come around? Why are they still in comas?" Why aren't they running around, screaming. Where are the arguments. What have I done to my beloved wildebeast?Screamed his mind.
"Sir, they are still alive. Their brains and bodies are still maintaining integrity despite the implants. We believe that their continued comas is their bodies way of adjusting to the implants."
"But Tiny Harper was out within 48 hours."
"Yes, Sir. But we've made improvements in the last five years since then. The cerebonics have improved, and they meld in a completely different way with their minds and bodies. It will actually be a better implant, they will be able to do more than Tiny Harper."
"If they survive the process, that is," said Anderson.
"We're sure that they will, Sir. The whole project depends on it."
"It's not the Project that concerns me, Doctor. It's the lives of those children."
Anderson left the room – in the last week, he realised, he had left more rooms more abruptly than he had ever done in his life.
In the hall, he came across the other two members of his little team – Tiny Harper, a sturdy 17 year old, holding the hand of the 7 year old Keyop. "How are they, Sir?"
Anderson winced as the word came out of his mouth. "Satisfactory."
"Want to see," said Keyop. "Want to show Princess new book."
Anderson looked down. This child, grown in a laboratory, his implant in place from birth, had adopted them as his family. Another soul who would be devastated if anything further went wrong. "Not yet, Keyop. They can't have visitors yet."
He walked away from them, unable to meet their eyes.
His meandering footsteps took him through the complex, remembering the havoc his Wards had created thoughout their lives here. Unthinking he allowed his mind to wander over the years, unconsciously heading towards the living quarters.
It had been a joke, at the academy. Three friends, making their wills, leaving their children to the care of the others. Never knowing that the joke would become reality.
Anderson opened the door to Mark's room.
Aeroplanes twisted on strings from the ceiling, posters of aeroplanes on the walls. On the untidy desk, were some photos. Anderson lifted the one in pride of place in the centre – a tall mustached man, holding a small boy, a woman standing next to them laughing.
Mark's parents, with him, six months before his mother had died. Seven months before his father had entrusted Mark to his care.
His mind drifted back to the day the four year old had been placed in his arms, the day that Michael Shaw had become Cronus.
"Take care of him, my friend. He's a bright boy. He'll do well in our Project. He's in your hands now."
Anderson put the photo back abruptly. He hadn't wanted the responsibility of a small boy, and had managed to ignore him for the most part.
Until... and he opened the next door. Jason. The one he couldn't ignore. The traumatised seven year old boy that he had retrieved from his Sicilian home. The home that had been torn apart by the bullets that had killed his parents, brothers and sisters.
He staggered a little as he remembered Miriam, shining Miriam who they had all been a little in love with. Miriam who had surprised them all by eloping with a Sicilian "businessman". Miriam who had regretfully given up her career, Miriam who had changed her religion.
Miriam who had died in a hail of Mafia bullets. Miriam, whose youngest son was the sole survivor of the massacre. Miriam, who had passed her devil-may-care attitude to her son.
Jason, who never let him forget that, for him, revenge was not a remote possibility.
He hadn't been able to ignore Jason – and Mark and Jason had forged a bond that was puzzling to most people, until they realised that the two boys were the opposite sides of the same coin.
And Anderson never forgot it when dealing with them.
He sighed as he came out of the bedroom, making mental note that whilst the children weren't in their rooms, they really needed a good cleaning. He rather suspected that if he made an investigation, he would find long-abandoned school lunches somewhere – that is if the smell had been anything to go by. He shook his head. That cleaning should be sooner rather than later.
Crossing the corridor he opened the door there, the one with the sign on it that said "Enter and DIE! I mean YOU, Mark and Jason", the dire warning incongrously offset by rainbows and stars on it and, yes (as he looked closer) a Harley Davidson motorcycle.
It made him grin widely as he entered. This room, in contrast to the boy's, was clean and tidy, as dainty as it's usual occupant.
And as unsual.
He looked over at the niche holding the bright Russan Orthadox religious icon, the candles before it now cold.
His little Russian Princess. He knew she remembered her parents. Knew that she was more upset than she had ever revealed by their deaths.
He remembered bringing her home, knowing that it was going to be hard. He had been horrified when he saw the small girl at the funeral of her parents. He'd expected the black, but not the full extent of what she was wearing – down to the black veil.
She had looked at him with all the haughtiness of her birth, but had walked away with him, small hand clasped trustingly in his, without a murmer.
The problem had come later.
Anderson had been astonished at the amount of luggage she had, and had been aghast at the entourage that had expected to come with her. The nurse he probably could have accepted (gratefully!),but not the Major Domo, the Maid, the Footman and the assorted others that believed it their right to be with their Princess.
That sorted, he had then had the challenge of introducing this, literal, Princess into the rough and tumble world of a household of men.
Anderson sat on the bed and fondly recalled the day when the eight year old girl had firmly taken control of the hearts of one man and two boys.
"What is that?"
"Jason, be polite. It's a girl"
"I know that, dork. What it mean is what's it doing here? And what's it wearing."
The girl threw back her veil and extended one haughty hand. "I am the Princess Alexandra Nicholivna Romanov."
It hadn't been an entire disaster. He'd managed to separate the three of them without too many injuries, then managed to explain to the boys that her name wasn't Princess, that it was a title, and even if they found it funny, it wasn't polite to laugh at her like that. He'd taken the little girl to task as well, explaining that they hadn't meant an insult to the Russian Imperial Family (even though it had been 200 years since Russia had a Tsar), even a small, obscure branch such as hers was.
But it had stuck. Princess she had become, and Princess she had stayed. He had, however, noted that Mark sometimes called her Lexa, usually when he was trying to wheedle something out of her. Still, she answered to it.
The door opened and he rose to face his PA, her face alight.
"They're awake, Sir. The Doctor says that they're going to be OK."
Six Years Later
They had done well, those children of his. Their first mission had been hard, and it would still be 24 hours before they returned, but they had triumphed.
It had been a hard journey, but he had been thrilled that they had managed to balance what they were, with who they were.
It never ceased to amaze all the staff that when they were in uniform, the members of G-Force were silent, appearing and dissapearing without a trace.
Out of uniform, Conway's nickname of "Herd of Thundering Wildebeast" still applied, but Anderson never complained. He only had to remember the darkest week of his life, when three of his children might never have survived, and each time he heard them thunder down the hallways, each time he referreed a squabble, or comforted hurt feelings, he gave a prayer of thanks that these children had not only survived, they had thrived.
He looked at the latest photos on his desk, one of G-Force in full birdstyle (and he couldn't supress the grin when he remembered Princess's rage when she found hers was not only pink, but, as she put it "the most bloody impractical thing you could ever imagine to wear into battle." He'd promised her that he would do what he could to change it).
The other one, was at the 18th birthday of Mark, Princess and Jason. His three children had grown up – and he was always surprised at how they resembled his three friends, but at how his own lessons were showing on their faces.
They were children to be proud of, strong, honorable and beautiful. Direct gazes looked straight at the camera, and in those gazes he found their natures. Mark, the leader, Jason the Warrior and Princess, the heart that tempered the other two.
Anderson opened his briefcase and took out a very old photograph. It showed a much younger Anderson with three other people – two men and a woman. As in the newer photograph, Anderson was behind the other three, but the gaze of all were direct and strong. He reached out a finger, tracing the faces.
"Nicholas, Miriam and Michael. I hope that I've made you proud of them," he whispered, and then locked the photograph away as he heard the sound of his children arriving.
His PA opened the door and winked "Herd of Tundering Wildebeast on the way, Sir. Are you available?"
He smiled as he nodded, and his PA smiled back.
Because, sometimes, even a herd of thundering wildebeast can be a blessing.
Especially when the other option is its absence.