Disclaimer: The Thunderbird Universe and all the characters I use in the story (with the exception of dear old Mr S – he's my own invention) belong to Gerry Anderson. No infringements of these copyrights are intended, and no money is made with this fanfic.
Thanks to Pen for her beta-reading skills.
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Behind the Veil of Shadows
by kaeera
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Chapter One: Quite detached from the outside world
John Tracy stared at the coffee cup in his hand and took a sip, grimacing as he realised that it had gone cold already. Well, that didn't really surprise him. It had been a miracle that any coffee had been left at all, not with the hundreds of people that bustled through the hospital, looking for relatives and making a general mess.
"Excuse me!" A nurse hurried past the blonde, pushing a long gurney with a child on it. A small girl, maybe six or seven years old, her face covered in blood. John swallowed hard. He never got used to the devastation; and children were always the worst.
The parents were nowhere in sight. Probably dead, as so many were. Modern technology might be advanced, but when nature decided to strike, humans were as helpless as newborns.
He took another sip of the cold liquid – caffeine was caffeine, after all – and threw the plastic cup into the next bin. It was already overflowing with waste. A sharp pang in his side reminded him why he was at the hospital and not out there rescuing people.
Gingerly, John rubbed his aching mid-section and grimaced at the pounding headache in his skull. He felt like he had been in a fight with a giant hippo – and lost. This was going to hurt for quite a while.
Damn afterquakes.
The air vibrated with sound; too many people and not enough space. It was a madhouse, the doctors running around, hundreds of injured to care for and not enough supplies.
John weaved through the crowd, evading flailing hands and busy nurses. He felt a bit lost; everything had been taken out of his hands. He knew what he was doing on a rescue scene – here, the doctors and the nurses were in charge.
Or maybe they were as lost as he felt. Not surprising, with the sheer amount of tragedy that filled the hospital.
People were lying in the corridors, skin torn, limbs broken, bleeding freely on the ground. They groaned and cried and screamed, but it simply disappeared in the overbearing background noise. John tried to ignore their begging – he wasn't a doctor, there was no way he could help them – but it tore at his heart. So much despair. So much pain. And he was right in the middle of it.
It was absolute chaos.
He barely managed to avoid a collision with a sobbing woman, ducked out of the way just in time and let her pass. She didn't even notice his presence, wrung her hands and screamed for her son. "David," her voice echoed brokenly through the hallway. "Please, where's my Davy, help me find my Davy..." She babbled on, bearing the frantic look of a woman on the edge of her sanity, until someone took her by the arm and led her away. John watched them numbly.
I have to get out of here, hammered through his head. The job's not finished yet. There are people who need my help.
John was annoyed he had been sent to hospital while the others were still working. Sure, he had been hurt, but he'd had worse. A couple of cracked ribs. A concussion. Severe exhaustion. He could live with that.
But dammit, there were still people out there, lying under tons of rubble! They needed him.
Obviously Scott doesn't share that opinion.
He snorted. Okay, so he had been right in the centre of the last afterquake...and maybe the room had collapsed on top of him, but dammit, he was fine, no need for all this fuss. And if things got a little blurry on the memory front, well, that was to be expected, wasn't it? He'd been knocked out for a couple of moments – blurriness was to be expected.
If he was honest, he could barely remember how he got here – it all was a mixture of colours and voices and pain – but he was standing and he was alright, so they could damn well have taken him back with them.
Fact was that there had been no reason to bring him to the hospital, of all places! They could have patched him up in the infirmary, and he would have been able to go back to work, instead of being lost inside the giant building.
Or maybe they could have just picked him up again, after he received his treatment. What was he supposed to do now? Stick around and read the newspaper? Help the nurses? He belonged to International Rescue, and that was where he should be right now.
Maybe Scott doesn't trust you to handle the rescue.
No. John shook his head against the whispering little voice. He was fine – well, not entirely. But well enough to do his job - even though he didn't get as much rescue experience as his brothers, he was still perfectly able. Scott could trust him as well as he could trust the others.
"Now you just wait, Scott," the blonde Tracy growled to himself. He'd enough of this place; he was going to go to the rescue scene, where his brothers would – no doubt! - still be working. With the firm intention to leave, he swung around, realising belatedly that he had been wandering aimlessly for the last couple of minutes.
Hm. Now that's odd.
The best way to get information was always the front desk, John reflected, and marched towards the loudest part of the building. People tended to cluster around those kind of places, especially in a panic situation. Today was no different.
The entrance hall was a flurry of activity. People bustled through the corridor, most of them wet, dirty, and bedraggled-looking. The doctors and nurses appeared stressed, trying to get some order in the chaos, to no avail. There were babies crying, people sobbing, and others screaming in pain while they waited to be treated.
"I hate hospitals," John murmured to nobody in particular and pushed through the crowd, careful to avoid the injured. He saw at once that there was no chance to speak to the nurse at the main desk – she was dealing with four people at once and looked as lost and exhausted as he felt.
"Does anyone here know what's going on out there? How's the rescue going?" he asked loudly, but received no reply. Figured. People never felt responsible if the question was too general. He needed to talk to someone directly.
"Excuse me," he turned to a small, young man standing close to him. "Do you know..."
The man mumbled something and then hurried past him, ignoring his plea. "Hey! I was talking to you," John called after him, his patience wearing thin. How rude! And he was in his IR outfit, too!
He tried to get the attention of an old woman, but she only clutched her handbag to herself and seemed to stare right through him. Totally bonkers, he thought to himself, a wave of pity flooding him. The old lady started humming a toneless tune, her eyes flickering wildly. John sighed in frustration and flashed her an encouraging grin (which came out more as a grimace, but the effort was there nonetheless).
John looked for someone else he could ask, but everybody was so caught in his own grief that he didn't want to interrupt. Sometimes it was really a pain to be the sensitive one.
He was on the verge of simply leaving the building and following his nose (after all, Thunderbird Two wasn't easy to overlook), when he saw a familiar face above the crowd.
"Scott?"
His brother, well on the other end of the hall, didn't hear him. Still in his uniform, he appeared tired and weary, lines of exhaustion etching deep into his face. He was talking to a doctor, and whatever it was they were conversing about, it had to be serious. Scott looked very grave, blue eyes dulled and pained, and didn't even notice the admiring stares he was receiving from the people around him.
Concern bubbled up in his stomach, and John started to slide through the crowd. A worried Scott meant trouble. Had something happened during the rescue? Was one of his brothers injured? And why was Scott still here and not out on the rescue scene, coordinating the clean-up and being his usual, in-control self?
Right now, Scott didn't look very much in control. On the contrary, he appeared lost and hung onto the words of the doctor like a man hanging on his lifeline. It was enough to make John suspicious.
Well, there was only one way to find out. He weaved through the crowd, for once glad that he wasn't as sturdy as Virgil – it made it much easier to slip past the people unnoticed. As he drew closer, he managed to hear snatches of their conversation.
"...not much we can do...hospital's full..."
"...I know...rescue...still a lot of people out there..."
"...your people..."
"Ouch!" John was nearly run over by a tall, muscular man. He barely managed to catch himself and glowered at the offender, who continued to push through the crowd, a panicked look on his face. "Help! Please! I need help!"
Only then did John realize that the man was carrying a limp body in his arms; a small woman, lifeless and soaked with blood and mud. His annoyance evaporated into nothingness. Were their positions reversed, John would have acted the same. There was simply no time for politeness when a loved one was dying.
But still, all those near collisions were getting annoying. It made him remember why he hated crowds. The peaceful solitude of Thunderbird Five was like a haven in his mind.
Well. Not gonna happen anytime soon.
John turned back towards his brother and the doctor, only to realise that they were moving down a corridor.
"Scott!" he called again, but the background noise must have been too high; Scott didn't turn.
"Great. Just great." John watched in dismay as the two disappeared around a corner. "Just ignore me. It's only me. Thank you."
He wasn't really angry – it wasn't Scott's fault that it was so loud – but he felt frustrated, and it was good to get rid of some tension. He'd never been a big people person, and all the activity around him was getting on his nerves.
Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the staff toilets. Nobody was bothering with them, and, feeling the need for some quiet time alone, he slunk away, careful not to run into anyone. That proved to be quite a challenge. Even though he was very keen on avoiding people, they didn't seem to share the opinion; on his short way to the door he had another three near-collisions.
Grumbling to himself about the rudeness of panicked people, he slid through the door and sighed in relief as the bathroom proved to be empty.
Well. Most of the staff didn't probably have the time to use the toilets right now. John felt a bit guilty, but not enough to leave the room. Just two minutes, to get his bearings, and then he would follow Scott. After all, it was like being thrown into cold water, being here – he'd spent the last month on Thunderbird Five, in total isolation, and now he was surrounded by hundreds of people.
"I hate hospitals," he repeated again and stepped towards the basin. "And I hate rescues that turn bad."
John splashed his face with cold water and then leant his head against the cool tiles. Ah, blissful relief. The pounding eased somewhat. For a moment, he wondered why he hadn't taken some pain medication.
Probably insisting that I don't need it.
Wasn't it always the same? It seemed to run in the family. Stubborn Tracys. Medications are for weaklings. Besides, John hated the loopy feeling he always got when he took prescribed drugs.
The pressure in his head seemed to increase steadily, making him irritated.
John opened his eyes and stared at the tiles. The hospital sounds were still audible, but softer, dulled by the walls. The blonde pulled a face. He didn't fancy going out there again, but his sense of duty told him otherwise. He couldn't very well hide in this bathroom forever.
What's wrong with you? You're behaving like a coward! It's just a hospital, for God's sake!
And so he steeled himself, masked his face as another wave of pain swept through him, and left the bathroom just as a weary looking doctor stepped in and steered towards the toilets. The strange feeling in his gut remained.
John sent the doc a sympathetic look – the man looked even worse than he felt – and then winced as the rush of noises pounded on him like a tidal wave. He stayed close to the walls, to keep out of the way of everybody. It was almost impossible. A group of children filled the corridor; probably a school class, hurt, dirty, and crying for their parents.
When they didn't notice his uniform, he knew that it had to be really bad; usually, children clustered around everybody who wore the IR logo. But they didn't even seem to notice him. Caught up in their own pain and grief.
Poor little things. Their parents are probably dead.
Too many people died today.
John shook his head, turned around the corner and stopped in his tracks. He had discovered Virgil.
Instead of piloting Thunderbird Two, or operating one of the rescue vehicles as he had expected him to do, his brother was sitting on a chair, head in his hands, the picture of utter devastation. The sight worried John; Virgil was not easily put down, and seeing him like that only could mean one thing: One of them was hurt.
It couldn't be Scott, John concluded; after all, he had seen him running around just minutes ago. And it couldn't be Virgil, as he was sitting here and probably wouldn't be worried about himself.
Alan was still on Thunderbird Five, unless he had been shot down, which John thought unlikely.
So that left Gordon and him. Well, John knew that he was fine – battered and bruised, maybe, but fine – so it could only be his copper-haired brother. Cold dread settled in his stomach. That explained why Virgil and Scott were here instead of out there; that explained why nobody had picked him up yet. Gordon must be injured – so bad that they had been afraid to leave.
Damn.
"Virgil?" He asked softly, as not to startle his brother. Virgil didn't react, probably hadn't even heard him. Even though they were away from the main tumult, the noises still carried heavily and made speaking softly almost impossible.
"What's wrong?" John asked a bit louder, walking closer to his brother.
Virgil sighed and pinched the bridge of his noise. He looked tired and exhausted, the result of hours of piloting and rescuing people.
How long had they been here? At least fifteen hours, from what John could remember. Enough to clear the worst areas. Now it was probably left in the hands of the locals. International Rescue was only human, after all; and with Virgil looking like he did, John could understand why Scott hadn't ordered them out again.
"This shouldn't have happened," Virgil mumbled, his eyes dull.
John laughed roughly. "It never should, and yet it always does."
His brother just shook his head and didn't reply. John's heart slipped even lower; it must be really serious. Had Gordon hurt his back again? Was the damage permanent? Or maybe...maybe he was...dead?
The thought carried such graveness that he sucked in a sharp breath. No. Absolutely not. Gordon couldn't be dead – he was...he was indestructible! The kid had survived a hydrofoil crash, goddammit! He always bounced back, like a cat with nine lives.
"Virgil. Please, I need to know what happened." John swallowed hard. "Is it Gordon? Is he injured? He's still alive, is he?"
Virgil took his time to answer, and John fought down the urge to shake him. No, he was supposed to be the sensible one. Shaking fell into Alan's department. Still, the insecurity was almost worse than the truth, however bad it might be. It was tearing at him and...
"Virg!" A voice startled them both and stopped Virgil from replying. Scott strode towards them, his face grim and stony. John knew that particular look - it was his 'nothing-is-under-control-but-I'm-not-gonna-show-it-expression'. It meant that he was on the verge of breaking.
That proves is. Things are worse than bad.
Virgil stood up – resembling more an old man than the young pilot he was – and turned frightened eyes towards his brother. "How is he?"
"Bad." Scott shook his head, his blue eyes clouded. "They...they say he's slipping."
Virgil paled even further and John couldn't help but gasp. "No! Not Gordon!"
But the pain in their faces told him enough, and the last, desperate hope that maybe they had been here because of someone who he didn't know, disappeared. The naked anguish could only mean one thing. Fear, honest fear to lose a brother.
Not Gordon. Not him. He makes us laugh. He keeps our spirits up. He's important. He's...my brother...
"Can...can we see him?" Virgil asked, hesitant.
"Only one at a time. And not before they're finished." Pain flashed over Scott's face. "They're operating him right now. One of his ribs...it pierced his lung. Pneumothorax. He stopped breathing and..." he took a deep breath, trying to find the best way to voice this, "...they had to resuscitate him."
"And of course, the hospital is stretched thinly as it is. They're making allowances, because we're International Rescue, but..."
John hated how desperate his brother sounded. "What are his chances of survival?" he asked, voice dry.
He received no reply, which was answer enough. John could almost feel how the blood drained from his face, making him feel hollow and empty. Slim to none. Dammit Gordon, why now?
"Let's go and see him." Virgil suggested.
Both Scott and John nodded, too stunned to say anything else. Scott kept rubbing his face, probably sporting a headache equal to John's, with the magnitude of slow moving icebergs. It hurt. And yet it didn't hurt as much as the idea of losing a brother.
Damn afterquakes.
Everything had been under control until those stupid afterquakes had hit.
It occurred to John that he didn't even know how it happened. But then again, it didn't really interest him. The how wasn't important; Gordon was. And his survival. They had nearly lost him once; losing him a second time was unacceptable.
The three brothers marched down the corridors and went to the surgical area. The hospital itself was very modern, something John was grateful for. It meant that his brother was receiving the best care available; well, as available as it could be in a city that had been devastated by an earthquake.
He winced as another wave of pain welled through his head. Pain medication sounded more appealing with each passing minute; he had the feeling that he would need to stay awake for quite a while.
"What about the rescue?" Virgil inquired softly.
Scott's face tightened. "We helped with the worst. They should be okay, at least for now. I don't want to..." His voice trailed off, but John knew anyway what he had intended to say. I don't want to leave while Gordon might be dying.
Scott's sense of duty was really clashing with his worry for his brother. John could see the internal agony he was going through; and he certainly didn't envy him for it. Duty before family? It usually was the case, but it seemed like one of those borderline decisions...they weren't desperately needed, but they could still help.
John bit on his lower lip. Now that he knew about Gordon, he wasn't entirely sure whether he'd be able to go back to the rescue or not. He'd go, if Scott ordered him to – professional detachment was the first thing he had learned in this job – but that didn't mean he had to like it.
At least it wasn't his decision to make. Once again John was glad that he wasn't the oldest. Being a middle brother was much easier; the youngest and oldest seemed to get the worst out of the deal.
"Does Dad know about this?" he wanted to know. "One of us should probably contact Alan..." It surprised him that they hadn't done so already. But then again, there had been a lot going on, and he hadn't been there.
Scott sighed and rubbed his face. He looked tired and grey, which made John feel guilty that he had burdened his elder brother with yet another foul duty. "I can do it, if you want," he hurried to say, already pressing the button of his wrist watch. His stomach churned as he thought about telling Alan the news – he was the closest to Gordon – but he knew that the youngest Tracy would be angry if he wasn't told immediately.
"John to Thunderbird Five, please respond, Alan."
To his annoyance, John only received static. Confused, he tapped the plastic. Nothing. Strange. He hadn't damaged it - the watch should be working perfectly. John frowned at the offending item and examined it closely. There was no fault, no broken parts; and no reason why it shouldn't be working. Was something blocking the communication? Naw, impossible. Even some of the phone lines were still working!
Giving up his attempts to repair the watch, John turned towards his brothers. "Guys, my watch isn't working! What about yours? I don't like the fact that we're cut off from..."
He stopped mid-sentence when he saw the doctor leaving the room. Wearing a bloodied surgeon's coat, she looked tired and worn. Scott straightened immediately and stepped towards her, Virgil following suit.
Well. I guess other things are more important.
Still, he was starting to feel a little bit left out. Couldn't they at least listen to him?
Shock. They're in shock, both of them. And you too. Don't be too harsh.
"How is he, doctor?" Scott asked, voice rough.
The woman chose her words carefully. "Well...he isn't dead yet."
Virgil's face fell. "But he's going to be alright?"
"We don't know for sure." A weary sigh. "To be quite honest, it looks bad. We lost him once, and he nearly didn't come back. It took him a long time to respond, so his brain was cut off from oxygen. It doesn't make things any easier. Right now, he's hanging on a thin thread. We're doing everything we can, but really," she lifted her hands in a helpless fashion, "It's up to him. He's healthy, so that counts in his favour, but..."
John closed his eyes, could almost sense the unspoken words. But don't have too much hope. You'll only be disappointed.
"Can we see him?" It was Virgil who asked, his voice strained.
The doctor – the name tag labelled her as Dr. Anita K. Fowler – frowned and watched them carefully. "Normally I'd have to decline," she began and then smiled wryly, "But this is not a normal day and you're not normal people. So yes, I will allow you to see him, but only for five minutes. After that, we'll have to move him out of the room and find some space for him. He's not stable enough for air transport yet."
"Thank you, Doctor." All tension seemed to leave Scott's body. "And...thanks for being honest."
"It's the least I can do."
"What about..." Scott had half turned around, but Virgil seemed to read his thoughts. "I'll call him." He tapped on his watch and stepped aside. John frowned at his back. So now he was going to call their father? Well, Virgil's watch seemed to be working at least.
John hesitated on the doorstep, glancing one last time at Virgil, and then followed Scott into the room.
From the angle where he was standing, he couldn't really see the figure on the bed, only Scott, standing close at the end and staring down as if he was seeing a ghost. John took in the many machines that were attached to the inert body and swallowed. It reminded him of times long gone, when Gordon had been in a bed similar to this one and the doctor had announced the terrifying news – 'it's very unlikely that he's going to walk again'. But Gordon had proven them all wrong, had managed to regain his life – only to find himself back in the same place today.
No. It won't happen. Gordon is a fighter. He will pull through this.
Doctor Fowler hovered in the doorway, stepping aside as Virgil entered the room. "He was already on his way," he almost whispered and walked past John without so much as a glance. "Should be here any minute."
John's head whipped up. What the hell was he talking about? There was no way their father could be here 'in a minute' – he was back on Tracy Island, and even with the fastest jet, it would take him hours to get here. The uneasy feeling returned, the nagging suspicion in the back of his mind that something was not right here.
"He looks so pale." Scott knelt down on the ground and took the limp hand.
Virgil joined him near the bed, and John realised with sudden intensity that he was stalling – for some odd reason, he didn't want to see Gordon all sick and bloodied, so he stayed behind...Coward! His mind reeled, he's your brother! And then the headache exploded behind his eyelids, pure agony, and he couldn't help the groan that escaped his lips.
Neither Scott nor Virgil reacted. Their gazes were focused on the figure in the bed.
John took a deep breath, waited for the pain to subside – which took quite some time – and then stepped forwards, with the firm intention to get rid of those cowardly tendencies he had shown all day.
Again, he didn't get far. The door was ripped wide open and someone else stormed in the room. "How is he?" an urgent voice whispered; a voice so familiar to John that his blood ran cold.
"Still alive." Virgil's toneless reply. He seemed unfazed by the intruder.
John turned around, not believing his ears. It couldn't be – maybe he was hallucinating – maybe it was a coincidence...but...
But there was Gordon Tracy, standing behind him, his copper hair matted with dirt and his eyes bloodshot, but looking very alive and not at all on the verge of death.
"No!" John exclaimed and then shrunk backwards, his gaze fixed on his brother. "Gordon! You...but...I thought you were injured...how?"
Gordon ignored his fragmented sentences; instead he strode past him around the heavy machinery that was obstructing the view and stepped as close to the bed as he could. John gaped after him, his mind a whirlwind of confusion, the headache making thinking almost impossible.
"Gordon...if you're alive...then who's the person on the bed?"
The nagging feeling intensified, urging him to step forward. He felt loose, detached, and very confused as he peered over his brother's shoulders to get a good look at the invalid.
John swallowed. And blinked. And then he looked again, because this couldn't be possible. The sight remained unchanged. And John thought it had to be a dream, because reality was never that twisted.
Dream. It has to be a dream.
More of a nightmare.
A very, very realistic dream, complete with dolby surround and 3D sense, but a dream nonetheless. This was...impossible.
John swayed on the spot, as the nauseous feeling threatened to overtake him. It wasn't the sheer amount of bruises and cuts that shocked him; nor was it the machines that were obviously working hard to keep the body alive, even though the mind might not be there. It wasn't how artificial everything looked; or how dead the body appeared, even though the chest was rising ever so slightly.
No.
It was the face. Almost unhurt except a large bruise on the forehead. A tube attached to his mouth, doing the breathing because the body was not able to. And no copper hair.
This wasn't Gordon – nor Alan, for that matter, even though he had thought so on the first glance. No, the face was frighteningly familiar, but in a weird way – like he wasn't used to look at it from this far away. Pale and sallow, with a mop of white blonde hair.
Not Alan.
But one of the Tracy brothers. And there was only one left who had the same hair colour.
"This can't be possible." John whispered and felt his knees go weak.
Because the face on the unconscious body was his own.
To be continued...
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A/N: I think it was in one of our numerous mails when Pen said something like 'You realize that John is the only one of the five you haven't thrown a house on, gotten shot, clobbered, or tortured in any other way? Poor boy is going to feel left out!'
I, of course, couldn't let that happen, and before I knew it, my mind was spinning in circles. The result? This – admittedly – crazy little story. Beware. It'll only get weirder.
