Disclaimer: I don't own Thunderbirds.

Thunderbird One's return was wrong. It wasn't too perfect, or even shaky and off-kilter, but it was wrong in a way that had Virgil's attention snapping immediately away from the piano to the silver rocket as she slid back down into the cavern beneath the pool. Scott was a fantastic pilot – the best – and never made a mistake bringing his 'bird into land, but there was still something organic about the way he flew.

His brother also despised landing using autopilot, but the smooth, artificial way the Thunderbird was sliding down told Virgil that it had to be autopilot.

By the time the realisation had sunk in, he was in Scott's chute and hurtling down to the belly of the island. John was taking one of his naps, and Virgil was at loath to wake him because he knew just how much he needed the sleep when he could get it, but his fingers itched to contact him anyway to find out what had happened to get Scott to put his 'bird on autopilot.

The chute spat him out onto the gantry just as the castors rolled Thunderbird One into view, sidling along her tracks until she came to a gentle stop. Virgil's feeling of wrongness didn't abate at all, and the reason for it became clear the moment the viewing window split apart and the pilot's seat emerged to meet the extending gantry.

It was empty.

"John!"

Virgil threw himself along the mesh of metal until he reached the seat. On his wrist, his comm flickered to life and his older brother, complete with ginger bedhead and half-closed eyes, appeared.

"What's wrong?"

"Where's Scott?"

The seat was still empty, but as Virgil pressed a hand to it he could feel the residual warmth of body heat. It hadn't been long vacated.

"Scott?" John asked, a yawn splitting his face even as his hologram moved. "Sensors say he's- That can't be right."

"What?" Virgil didn't mean to snap, but there was absolutely no way that Scott was okay. He knew it.

"He's in Thunderbird One," John said, and this time a hand rubbed at turquoise eyes, as though trying to clear sleep. "But… It looks like he's in the cargo bay."

Virgil sprung into the seat and retracted it inside the Thunderbird. John was right – it didn't make sense for Scott to be there, certainly not while Thunderbird One was landing, but Virgil had to check. He looked down as the seat locked into position and almost fell forwards in horror.

Below his feet, far below his feet at the back of the cargo bay where the blue doors that lead to the largest storage locker and internal engine access resided, was a slumped figure, limbs splayed and face pale.

Scott was clearly unconscious – even from his perch in the pilot seat, Virgil could see that his eyes were closed and that the side of his face was streaked with red.

"John, I need Grandma here asap," he ordered, grabbing for the small locker nestled directly under the seat that held gear like Scott's torches and spare grapples. "He's injured."

The initial cause wasn't clear, but to be crumpled where he was, with his 'bird landing on autopilot, meant that Scott had to have slid down the fuselage. Thunderbird One was the second smallest of the main Thunderbirds, but she was still long enough to make that a long, dangerous slide.

There were other ways to climb down Thunderbird One's cargo bay when she was vertical, but the fastest method was easily shooting a grapple and swinging down. Scott loved doing it, and while Virgil wasn't quite as much of an adrenaline junkie as his brother, he had no qualms about hurtling down to the blue locker on the end of a grapple if it meant shaving a few seconds off the descent time.

"Scott?" he called, crouching by his head and putting a light hand on his shoulder. "Scott, wake up."

There was no response, and in the absence of a medscanner, Virgil pressed his fingers to the pulse point at Scott's neck. It was present, but sluggish.

"Grandma's on her way," John told him. "What happened?"

"I don't know," Virgil admitted, leaving the pulse point alone to instead inspect where the blood was coming from. It didn't seem deep, thankfully, just a head wound's typical penchant for looking worse than it was. "Did anything happen on the rescue?"

"Not that I know of," John said, and he sounded almost affronted at the suggestion that if something had happened, he would've gone off for his nap before Scott got home safe and sound. Virgil winced apologetically. "Scott was fine. Suit telemetry was norm-"

Virgil glanced away from his tentative physical assessment of their big brother to see that John was staring at something he couldn't see in what could only be disbelief.

"His blood pressure suddenly dropped five minutes from home," John said. "I can't see a reason why, though."

"Nor can I," Virgil said grimly, tapping Scott's cheek lightly. "Scott, wake up."

He still didn't stir.

Not even Grandma's arrival, complete with a medscanner that was immediately deployed, could rouse him, and Virgil was undeniably terrified by that fact as he waited for the results of the scans to come in.

Low blood pressure was the first result to come back, but that was unsurprising considering Thunderbird Five had already diagnosed at least that, even if Virgil wasn't sure why. Bruising, some particularly angry, from where he'd presumably fallen down the fuselage as Thunderbird One came in to land. A broken arm, pinned beneath his body.

"What happened?" Virgil wondered out loud.

"We'll work that out later, Virgil," Grandma said, pushing a hoverstretcher towards him. "Right now, we need to get him to the medbay."

She was right. Virgil swallowed once before beginning the delicate process of moving Scott's still unconscious body onto the stretcher.

His fingers brushed something unusual as he manoeuvred the intact arm into position and he paused. It wasn't much, just something small and rather prickly in the crook of Scott's elbow, but it shouldn't be there at all.

Closer investigation revealed a wickedly large thorn lodged in the flesh, too deep for unaided fingers to extract. It was unfamiliar, and he immediately sent a scan of it to Thunderbird Five for John to look into before finishing the transfer of Scott onto the stretcher and finding his way out of the Thunderbird, hoverstretcher in tow.

Scott remained completely unconscious for the entire transfer, eyes remaining lightly closed even as Virgil and Grandma eased him onto a bed and started the process of cutting away the uniform to free the broken arm without stressing it any further. That, more than anything, scared Virgil.

What had happened?

Thanks for reading!
Tsari