Disclaimer: I don't own Thunderbirds.

Whumptober Day 25 "Escape" and "Hiding"

Gordon didn't know if Scott actually fell asleep, plain passed out, or even stayed conscious but just limp. For the moment, it didn't matter. There was nothing Scott could do any more – nothing else Gordon would let him do – so getting whatever rest he could manage, whatever form it took, was the best for him.

In the meantime, Gordon planned.

Ideally, he wanted to get to the control room and take control of the sub. If they could resurface, then they could be picked up. By himself, Gordon might even manage it, providing he managed to evade more than he had to fight, and could effectively barricade the door to prevent anyone getting in and reclaiming control.

But he had to protect Scott, too. Getting himself out meant nothing if it lost Scott in the process, and Gordon wasn't entirely certain that they thought Scott valuable enough to keep alive. The lack of medical attention he'd been offered implied that they thought he and his knowledge was replaceable, which was its own can of worms. Gordon ignored that can; it wasn't relevant to his escape plans.

He could barricade Scott in, but there was no guarantee that they wouldn't be able to get into the cell; it locked from the outside, after all.

He definitely couldn't carry Scott while he fought his way to the control room. Scott was heavy and would weigh him down significantly, as well as presenting an obvious target. There was no way they'd manage to escape if Scott came with him.

None of those plans were appearing in the least bit hopeful, so Gordon changed tack.

Taking control of the submarine wouldn't work. What other options did they have for getting out? What did they need? What could he work with?

They needed help. Galling as it was to admit, there was no way Gordon and Scott could escape by themselves. Help meant Thunderbird Five – once John was involved, anyone could be brought in.

And that meant that what they really needed… was communications.

Getting to the comms hub of the sub posed the exact same problems as trying to take control of the whole thing. An entire crew to fight through, with Scott as a glaring target the entire time.

Dammit.

There was only one thing that was set in concrete: the next time Bastard came through that door, Gordon was taking him down. It was unlikely that Bastard would anticipate that he'd be free of the cuffs – after all, with the state Scott was in, there was no way his brother should have been able to pick anything, and they'd been in the wrong place for Gordon himself to pick.

That was the one advantage Gordon might have. He couldn't waste it.

If only he could figure out how to utilise it.

Next to him, on the pallet that didn't even qualify as a bed, despite the useless blanket thrown over it, Scott shifted slightly, an unconscious whimper slipping from between his lips – it had to be unconscious, because Scott would never willingly vocalise discomfort of his own accord. Gordon brushed his hair back from his face, some strands damp with sweat that he hoped was just pain, and not some sort of infection setting in from the injuries.

The bar was really low when pain was the good option.

In the gloom, Scott's eyes flickered open, searching around blindly for a few seconds before settling on him. In answer, Gordon ran his fingers lightly through his hair – the one motion he was confident wouldn't injure his brother more.

Scott couldn't be moved. Whatever plan Gordon pulled together, that had to be a central factor, no matter how limiting it was. He was going to protect him, like he'd failed to do too many times already. If he failed again, there was a high chance Scott wouldn't survive.

His brother didn't react to the fingers in his hair. Gordon chose to take that as it wasn't hurting him, which once again, was a really low bar to aim for, but he'd take whatever he could get right now.

The problem was that he had no idea how he was going to get them out of there – how he was going to get into contact with John when both of them were missing their watches and there was almost certainly a jamming bubble in effect to help the submarine sidle along, undetected by law enforcers.

Footsteps sounded, and they were out of time. Gordon still didn't have a plan, Scott was still more unconscious than not – or so he hoped, because that was the best painkiller they could access right then – but if he didn't act now then he'd lose the ability to act at all.

"Your turn to lay low, Scotty," he murmured, with one last brush of his brother's hair. Pain-filled blue eyes peeled open a crack to look at him, and he gave him a smile. "I'm getting us out of here."

"Gor-"

"Shh," he interrupted gently. "You've done more than your fair share, Scotty. It's my turn to step up."

Phase one of the plan – the only phase of the plan – was incapacitating Bastard, and Gordon had a hunter inside him, eager for its chance to take a bite or several. The man was going to regret ever touching his brother.

Not very International Rescue of him, he knew, but he wasn't International Rescue right then. Being International Rescue would get them killed.

The ruthlessness WASP had instilled in him settled over his shoulders like a long-forgotten coat. The fit wasn't perfect, but it was good enough, and comfortable. Comforting.

Cliches had prisoners lying in wait behind the door, ready to pounce the moment it opened. It was the exact thing Bastard would be on guard against, so Gordon didn't bother with that façade. Instead he pulled the useless blanket over Scott, roughly as though it had been done by someone unable to properly use his hands and disguising the fact that Scott no longer had handcuffs around his wrists.

Nor did Gordon. Gordon had one set in his fists, and the other also slinking underneath the scrap of fabric, in easy reach if required.

Lastly, just as the bolt was thrown back with a scraping noise that put his teeth on edge, he arranged his hands behind his back and angled his body so that it looked like he was defending Scott.

That one wasn't even an act.

The flood of light was a problem, but Gordon couldn't let it stop him. He kept his eyes closed, listening to booted footsteps and heavy breathing as Bastard approached.

Waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting.

A hand grabbed his hair, yanking the strands hard enough he knew that when the fist opened again, several blond hairs would fall.

It hurt.

"Gordon!" Scott just couldn't sit aside, could he? His cry was weak and brimming with painful protest, but it was clear that big brother just had to be the idiotic big brother.

"Your turn will come soon," Bastard told his brother, tugging harder on Gordon's hair and dragging him to his knees. "It's not fair if I neglect this one, is it?"

"Let him go!"

Bastard just laughed, but realisation crashed down on Gordon.

Scott was, once again, providing distraction. Only this time, it was a distraction in their favour.

Bastard didn't appear to have noticed that neither of them were cuffed. Most of his attention was on taunting Scott, who intentionally or not was providing the man with enough entertainment to more or less stop him yanking Gordon around.

Gordon was only going to get one shot at this, and it had to be now.

He cracked his eyes open, not enough to let all the light in, but enough to make out the silhouette of Bastard. More specifically, where his throat was.

And then he struck.

Metal handcuffs made an acceptable garotte in a pinch, wrapping around the meaty throat and twisting together tight.

It was a risk. If Bastard had realised Gordon was free but not let on, he'd have been on guard and waiting for the attempt. If he was on guard, there was no way it would succeed. Gordon would join Scott in the camp of all broken bones, and they'd be utterly screwed.

But if Bastard hadn't realised…

The hand in his hair yanked hard, but Gordon hung on viciously. This was to get them – get Scott out of there. This was revenge for Scott. This was self-defence.

He twisted the chain tighter and got a gurgling noise as reward.

Another hand scrabbled at the chain, a default reaction but ultimately a useless one against the merciless façade earned through blood, sweat and tears in WASP.

Gordon kept tightening the chain. Tighter, tighter, tighter, until Bastard was on his knees. Backlit by the corridor light, it wasn't possible to see what colour his skin had gone, but Gordon had seen strangulation enough times to have some idea.

Part of him was glad that Scott couldn't see what he was doing, although he certainly knew, at least up to a point. If Scott couldn't see, Scott couldn't judge, and Gordon didn't regret choking the man out for a single second, but he didn't think he could bear his biggest brother trying to save him in that way that he had.

It felt like a lifetime before the thrashing stopped. He held on a few moments more, tighter and tighter still to be sure.

A bash on the head with the other set, just to be absolutely safe – and maybe a little because he was feeling vindictive – and then he was wrestling the man's hands behind his back and fastening them with the cuffs.

That put Bastard out of commission. Just the rest of the crew to go, and he only had one pair of handcuffs next.

It was decision time. Planning time was over; sooner rather than later, someone would pass by the brig, or come wondering why their leader was taking so long.

None of Gordon's plans guaranteed protecting Scott – or even that his brother would survive.

Then, as he was shoving Bastard's limp form as far away from Scott as possible, cramming him up against the wall and shoving the bucket on his head as an additional precaution – and more petty revenge – he saw it.

The answer.

Their brig was a bottleneck. The externally locking door was a bit of an issue, true, but the crew would only be able to come through one at a time. In terms of keeping Scott safe, it was the best option, but the issue with that in the plans had always been that staying in the brig wouldn't get them out.

The little radio on Bastard's belt solved that issue quite neatly. It was almost certainly set to a local, small, frequency, but no-one had John Tracy for a brother without learning some tricks.

Gordon triumphantly swiped the radio and immediately began to fiddle with it. He didn't have any tech, but he didn't need to when this was a fully functioning radio, and not just a walkie-talkie. All he needed to do was switch it onto a public channel and…

"Thunderbird Five, you'd better be listening. Hey, Johnny-Johnny-Johnny-Johnny-Joh-"

"Gordon!"

His brother's voice crackled into the room. Gordon had never been gladder to be interrupted.

"That's me, bro," he said. "Hold up, let me just do some housekeeping. The door's a bit drafty."

He set the radio down next to Scott, whose eyes were wide, as though he hadn't expected to ever hear John's voice again. Gordon could relate, as much as it pained him. Noise carried, and their accommodation currently had an open door. It went against every instinct he had, but he reached out for it and pulled it closed again, shutting them in. As an afterthought, he shoved Bastard to lie in front of it, providing the perfect trip hazard for any other would-be-entrants.

"Back again," he said once he was done, sitting beside Scott and plucking up the radio again. "Johnny, we're trapped in a submarine with an unknown number of hostiles. You can track this signal, right?"

"I'm locked on tight," John promised. "Thunderbird Two is on course, but how is Virgil going to get you out?"

"Virgil will be annihilated if he tries," Gordon said immediately. "Any WASP in the area?"

"WASP? Why?"

"This is an unsanctioned militia group, John," he briefed. "They're mean and they know exactly what they're doing. Fight fire with fire – or in this case, water with water."

"Understood. EOS is looking into that now; what's your situation? Is Scott with you?"

"Our situation is Terrible, with a capital T," Gordon shrugged. "Whoever you get to blast us out of here, make sure they know we're immobile. They'll have to come get us rather than assume we'll get out in the chaos."

"Are you hurt? You still didn't mention Scott," John pressed.

"I'm fine," Gordon sighed. "Scott needs a hospital stat. They want information, John."

The horrified silence told him that John got the message.

"I've turned our brig cell into a mini fortress" – an overstatement, true, but that was the aim, at least – "and what seems to be the ringleader is out cold, but I can't move Scott to get anywhere more defensible."

"I'll make a note," John said after a moment. "Is Scott conscious?"

"Hey, J'n." Gordon jumped at the raspy voice, having written Scott off as definitely out cold by now.

"Hey, Scott," John replied, relief clear in his voice. "EOS has found some potential help. Keep the line open, Gordon."

"F.A.B." As though he was going to do anything less.

Keeping the line open didn't mean much by way of conversation, however. John and EOS were busy arranging a rescue – that wasn't even a hope, it was pure fact, because it was John and EOS and there was nothing in the world that could stop those two when they wanted something – and Gordon was well aware that the less noise he made, the less likely they were to be discovered.

No-one came to look for Bastard, and Gordon wondered how long he'd claimed he was going to be torturing him for.

That was not a thought to linger on for very long. He distracted himself by running his fingers through Scott's hair again when his brother shifted slightly and let out an involuntary noise of pain. He hated that he didn't even have painkillers to give him, let alone anything to try and treat his injuries with. He'd even scoured everything Bastard had on him, but medical treatment wasn't on the list.

Panicked shouting sounded from above them, and Gordon twitched.

"John, what's going on?"

"Your suggestion to look for nearby WASP patrols paid off," his brother replied. "They just found your illegal little submarine."

"It's not mine," Gordon retorted immediately, "but I will take that. Just remind them that they need to come get us before they obliterate this sub?"

"They know," John promised. "I made sure of it."

As if on cue, the door rattled. Gordon's heart leapt into his mouth and he shifted so that he was blocking the door's sight of Scott.

The figure that appeared was not wearing WASP uniform, and Gordon hissed into the radio. "John, I have company and they're not wearing grey. Get them down here."

"Working on it."

"Boss? Boss, we're under att- Boss?"

Gordon body tackled them to the ground, hearing their head crack against the corridor floor and wondering if he should have felt guilty for that.

His wonderings were cut short by the fact that he, too, was now out in the corridor, and that the new intruder hadn't been alone.

He scrambled back inside, trying to restore the bottleneck, but his foot caught on the still-limp form of Bastard and sent him toppling backwards, bashing his head on the pallet as he did so.

Ow, that smarted.

More importantly, they were still coming, and Gordon was at a major disadvantage. Major-major disadvantage.

His head hurt way too much, behind him, Scott still couldn't move, and there were advancing hostiles.

He tried to stand back up, but the knock to his head must have caught something just wrong, because his vision swam and his stomach rolled.

A hail of gunfire assaulted his ears.

It was only when the green camo collapsed and grey took its place that Gordon put two and two together.

"Found them," he heard. If the world would stop spinning, that would be great. "Preparing to initiate extraction."

Extraction sounded wonderful.

The plan was that this would be the last chapter, but I ended up pulling a twelve hour shift at work and only had about an hour's free time today (I should have been in bed an hour ago, whoops) so this is not the last chapter.

Due to aforementioned ridiculously long shift, there has been no proof reading at all. I'll tackle that... when I have a brain again.

Thanks for reading!
Tsari