Chapter 1

Scott ignored protocol. It was ironic considering he was a dedicated enforcer of it. Protocol kept things organised. Protocol prevented accidents and mistakes. Protocol helped keep everyone safe.

Well, to hell with protocol! It hadn't saved them this time and Scott sure as hell wasn't respecting it now. He marched, still dressed in his dirt-caked uniform, into his father's office. Jeff was exactly where Scott imagined he would be, but the sight still broke his heart.

The older man was sitting hunched at his desk with his head in his hands, staring blankly at a photo on his desk. The photo was of all of them. It had been taken many years ago now, back when Jeff had just bought a new car. The red convertible had been a big hit with his sons, and so it was the ideal setting for a picture. Scott tried not to look at the smiling faces within the stirling silver frame. His jaw locked as he approached his father and the speech he had prepared caught in his throat. Despite his attempts to dislodge the lump in his throat, he could not offer reassurance. He could not summon the words to rouse his father, nor offer him strength. The only thing he could manage was one strangled word.

"Dad."

Jeff offered no acknowledgement. His eyes were bloodshot and empty. The lump in Scott's throat dropped to his heart. Shuffling into the room, he almost winced at the rush of despair and misery that assaulted him. The room, it seemed, was thick with it. It suffocated the happy memories and caused Scott to choke as if he were inhaling a poisonous fume. Pushing aside the quartz crystal paperweight that sat on the desk, reached across and took his father's shaking hands in his. Only then did Jeff look up.

A pained expression crossed his face, but it was quickly replaced with one of stone.

"What is Thunderbird 2's ETA?" Jeff asked, looking away towards the computers.

"Fifteen minutes," Scott swallowed. "They'll be home soon."

Jeff stared silently at the computer monitor, shoulders sagging in defeat and his bottom lip quavering.

It was enough to send Scott over the edge. He'd planned to stay strong, to be the rock he had been after the death of his mother. He would take care of everyone. He would clean up the mess his father unwittingly left behind in his state of grief. But now, he wasn't so sure he could do it. This time it felt like he had lost so much more than a mother. This time, he'd lost someone he had sworn to look after for the rest of his life. He's failed someone who'd always looked up to him to makes things right. This time, he'd lost his baby brother.

They'd searched everywhere. The earthquake had hit a small country town called Mitchellton in Indiana USA. The town hadn't seen anything like it since 1909. Buildings were reduced to mounds of rubble, telephone and electricity lines had fallen, fires had erupted; the whole area had been a disaster zone. The Thunderbirds had worked for nearly twenty four hours to rescue the trapped and evacuate the wounded. Much time had been lost removing dangling electrical cables and clearing debris. They'd worked systematically, starting with the school. Mercifully, the hospital had not been affected enough to render it incapable of operation. It was a new building and, like the town hall and fire station, stood up to the tremors much better than the older buildings did. It had been strenuous, but all of the townspeople had been remarkably determined to help despite their losses.

But things had started to go wrong when a second tremor had unexpectedly hit. It hadn't even shown up on John's sensors in time to give them an opportunity to prepare. Alan and Gordon had been helping survivors out of a crumbling community centre. The whole building had come down. Gordon had been helping a woman out of the door as the tremor hit and was able to use the doorframe to save himself and his victim. Alan had not been so lucky. Immediately the brothers had dove into the task of rescuing the one of their own. Even the rescue volunteers had searched for hours for the youngest Thunderbird. But the rubble had been so deep. They'd uncovered three bodies, but there had been no Alan. It was as if they had been searching for a ghost. For a moment they'd felt a rush of hope; perhaps Alan had escaped just in time. But all attempts to contact or find Alan had failed.

It was impossible; how could Alan have disappeared into thin air? The question had plagued them throughout the days they had spent searching for their little brother.

By the end, the boys had been exhausted, mentally, emotionally and physically. But they had been determined to carry on. Even John had spent every day and every night utilizing every resource he had in his beloved space station to try and locate Alan. On the ground, each brother had been willing to move rubble with his bleeding hands for the rest of their lives if it meant bringing Alan home. But as time passed, hope faded.

Jeff had called off the search party.

Immediately he had been assaulted by protests. Scott and his brothers hadn't believed it at first; surely it had been a sick joke. Jeff Tracy never gave up. It was the motto of International Rescue and the rationale behind which Jeff had raised a corporate empire. Jeff had called off the search for his own son, despite finding no body. Why? It was question that stung the tip of Scott's tongue.

Scott had flown home at breakneck speed, hoping to talk some sense into his father. But within minutes of arriving home, he understood. On the rescue scene, he'd pushed away all feelings of despair, clinging to hope and the memory of Alan to drive him on through a state beyond exhaustion. They all had. But walking into the office and seeing his father broken…suddenly all the feelings he thought he'd crushed rose up from within him. He fought to cling to rationalism. If they gave up now, they were betraying Alan. Surely they hadn't looked hard enough. Surely they could have moved more debris with their bleeding hands. Surely someone in the community centre could have survived.

Each hopeful thought slipped through his fingers like sand through a sieve. Finally, Scott broke; for the first time in his life, he didn't know what to do.

Tears ran down his cheeks as he held his father's hands. He looked up at his father, whose eyes were also brimming. "We failed him, Dad," his voice cracked. "We failed him!"

Jeff rose from his chair and came around the desk, pulling his eldest son into a firm hug. This time I will be strong, he vowed to himself. This time I will not let my grief make me forget them. Lucy would want me to be strong. Oh, Lucy.

The tears he had tried to stall burst their dams. He and Scott held each other, both supporting the other as the shock of what had happened came crashing down on them.

They didn't even pull apart when the lift swooshed open. A few moments later, a hand tugged Jeff's shoulder.

Jeff turned to look at Virgil's face. Behind the streaks of dirt lay exhaustion and anger. The anger was quickly replaced by shock and pain.

"You weren't allowed to start until we got back," Virgil's voice shook as the first tears started to make tracks down his face. Jeff wrapped an arm around Virgil's shoulders and pulled him into the hug. Jeff looked around for Gordon to find him standing stoically a few feet away, staring at the floor.

"Gordon," Jeff solemnly beckoned.

Gordon backed away, shaking his head. "He's not…" he stammered. "He's not gone."

Jeff walked to him, holding his son's shoulders to stop him from retreating.

Gordon pulled away. "No! It's not over! Dad…" his face was strained as he tried to hold back tears.

Jeff pulled him into a rough but supporting hug. "I know," he swallowed, though his heart was telling him something else. "We're going to try. If it's the last thing I do, I'm going to bring him home," he promised. "Either way."

OoOoO

The flat beeping told him he was in a hospital. He wasn't sure of how he knew that. But the connection was still there despite his inability to remember of a specific time he had learned it. And the antiseptic. The ever present, nauseating antiseptic.

That's why I was in a bed. He remembered foggily of the last time he awoke. This time wasn't much different. Everything still hurt. Something was still wedged between his teeth and stuck down his throat.

Alan blinked, bringing the world into focus. He was in a small room on a narrow bed. Everything was white. There were machines around his head, one of which was making a whooshing sound. Next to him was a woman. She was in her mid forties with blonde hair tied in a messy ponytail. Her head was resting on her arms, which were folded on the bed by his waist. She was asleep. She wore a white, wrap dress.

The woman in white, he remembered.

He tried to move his arm. He knew it would be unkind to wake her, but he didn't want to be alone. He had only to move his fingers when a pain shot up his arm and through his shoulder. His cry was muffled by the tube in his mouth, but the beeping from the monitor increased. It was enough to wake the woman. Her brandy eyes fluttered open and looked up at him, then widened when she saw he was awake.

He looked at her imploringly, hoping that she'd understand.

Sitting up, she reached above him and pressed something he couldn't see.

She gently stroked his forehead as she had done before. Her other hand carefully rubbed his hand. "Hey, sweetie," she softly cooed. He was calmer simply hearing her voice. "It's okay. I'm not going to hurt you. You were in an accident, but you're going to be fine."

Alan was trying so hard to keep up with what she was saying. His head started to throb from such concentration.

An accident? Why did I have an accident? Where am I? Who am I?

"Sweetheart, shhh," the woman soothed, noticing his distress. She watched him intently as she stroked his cheek with her fingers. "It's okay."

His eyes flickered to the end of his bed, where woman with mousy hair and a man wearing a white coat had appeared.

The man smiled and walked to Alan's other side. "Look who's decided to join us in the land of the living."

Alan recognised the voice and the brown hair. Unlike the woman's, the man's eyes were a deep blue. The man continued to smile reassuringly. "We were waiting for you to wake up before we removed the tube. I'm going to take it out for you now, okay?"

Alan wanted to nod, but experience from his last attempt at moving advised him otherwise. The man flipped a switch and the whooshing machine fell silent. The mousy haired woman at the end of the bed handed him a thin white towel, which he laid under Alan's chin.

"Okay, son. When I say, I want you to take a deep breath and then blow it out," the man gently instructed, pulling on a pair of latex gloves.

Alan looked up at the man to indicate that he'd understood.

The man unhooked the tube from the machine, then held the end sticking out of Alan's mouth. "Deep breath in," he encouraged.

Alan tentatively obeyed, tensing.

"And blow out." The man slowly pulled the tube.

The sensation was horrible and it caused Alan to immediately gag.

"Keep blowing, son. That's it," the man encouraged

Alan tried, but he doubted his efforts were not helping. Finally, the tube was out.

The man handed it to the mousy-haired woman and used the towel to wipe Alan's mouth. "Well done," he commended, removing his gloves and tossing them away.

Alan swallowed, then cringed at the rawness of his throat.

The man looked at him sympathetically. "Sorry, son. Nil by mouth, I'm afraid, so I can't give you water just yet." He unwound the stethoscope he was wearing around his neck and hooked it in his ears. "Can you get me some ice chips, Cindy?"

The mousy haired woman nodded and left.

The man held the end of the stethoscope on Alan's chest. "Deep breaths for me now."

Alan tried to obey, but the pain in his chest made his breath hitch halfway.

He tried once more when the man listened to his other lung, but again he failed.

"It's okay," the man assured. "The fact that you're still breathing is a miracle, so we'll just take it step by step."

"John," the woman in white softly reprimanded.

John looked up at her.

"He's been through enough. He doesn't need to hear that," she said.

John nodded and offered Alan an apologetic smile. "She's right. Where are my manners? I haven't even introduced myself. I'm Doctor John Fletcher."

"And I'm Mary," the woman added, kindly. "What's your name?"

The question brought back all of the fear and confusion. Why aren't I able to answer a simple question like that?

His eyes filled with tears as he carefully he shook his head.

"You don't want to tell us?" Mary asked, without accusation.

Knowing he couldn't answer that question without speaking, Alan opened his mouth. "I… can't," he rasped.

"What do mean you can't, son?" the doctor asked gently, perching on the bed.

Alan licked his dry lips nervously. He was trembling now, unable to speak. What's wrong with me? Why can't I remember?

John was observing him very carefully. "Can you remember anything?"

Alan carefully shook his head, then cringed as it throbbed in protest.

"It's okay," said John, standing up. "We'll try again later. I'm going to get you something for the pain."

As soon as John left, Alan closed his eyes. Everything was hurting now. It hurt to breathe. He couldn't even move without pain shooting through him. And as his despair grew, so did the pain. He opened his eyes when Mary's hand rested on his hand again. She was looking at him in a motherly way. "Don't worry," she said, gently. "Let's focus on getting you on your feet again first."

"What's wr…" Alan's dry throat prevented the words from escaping.

As if on cue, Cindy appeared holding a plastic cup. Mary took it from her, smiling her thanks. As Cindy left, Mary took an ice chip from the cup and popped it in Alan's mouth. As soon as he tasted the cold water, he wanted more. Three ice chips later, he was able to talk.

"What's wrong with me?"

Mary placed the cup on the table at the end of the bed and leaned forward in her chair, looking at Alan steadily. "You were in an accident," she started. "Just over a week ago, there was an earthquake in town. You were found by our volunteer rescue teams trapped under the ruins of the community centre. You were the only one in that building to be found alive. You were very badly hurt, sweetie. You had a very bad head injury, your right shoulder was dislocated, your left arm was covered in glass, and your right leg was broken. You also broke four ribs, and one of them punctured your lung. That's why you've been on the ventilator."

"You were very lucky," John added as he walked back into the room. He placed a small, plastic bowl down on the trolley at the end of the bed and pulled on another pair of gloves. "You've been asleep for six days. To be honest, we were worried you wouldn't wake up at all."

Alan frowned. An earthquake. Why does that sound so familiar?

John approached him. "I'm just going to take a look at you before I give you meds," he said gently, pulling a penlight out of his coat pocket and leaning over Alan.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he assured when Alan flinched. He flashed the light in Alan's eyes a couple of times. "Do you have a headache?"

"Yeah," Alan murmured.

John nodded. "That's going to linger for a few weeks. With the knocking your head took, I'm surprised it's still on your shoulders."

He moved down to Alan's left arm, which was securely bound in a thick white dressing. "These cuts have been healing well, but they were very deep, so it's only natural that they still hurt," he explained. "Your right shoulder was dislocated so we'll try to keep that immobile, okay?"

Alan nodded, noticing for the first time that his right arm was in a sling.

"I've explained the rest," Mary said.

John nodded, returning to the trolley and picking up a syringe filled with an amber liquid. Alan's stomach turned at the sight of it. John noticed his grimace and chuckled. "Don't worry, champ. It's going into your I.V, so you won't feel a thing."

John injected the substance into the port of the back of Alan's left hand, rubbing Alan's good shoulder when he was done. "Don't panic if you start feeling sleepy very soon. It's an effect of the drug."

"Don't worry, honey," said Mary, gently squeezing his right hand. "I'll be right here when you wake up."

Despite how much it hurt, Alan returned the squeeze.