Hi, again! Am trying hard for brevity; for saying more with less. Thanks, Tikatu, Bow Echo and Whirl Girl, for your encouragement and inspiration! =)
16
On Cutwater Destiny, in its final moments of solid existence-
Alan Tracy had wanted excitement and a chance to show off for Piper, who he really needed to impress, and win over. Well, he got his wish, with an extra helping of risk, on the side.
As they were shooting through the old crew quarters, something buckled and snapped deep down on the rig. Alan could feel the metal's vibration change, from thrumming with wind and sway and deep currents, to groaning aloud in sudden collapse. The building around him gave a sharp twist to the right, speared by his helmet and rocket-board lamps. The floor below slanted wildly away, as one cracked wall avalanched after them, and the other receded. Corroded furniture first juddered and skipped, then fell through the air.
"Hang on, Pip!" the boy yelped, because getting out all alone was not in the picture. Both or neither, man; now and forever. Piper's arms went tighter in response, and she called out,
"Couldn't shake me loose if you tried, Space-Jock! Let's go!"
Drunk on love and adrenaline, Alan stamped once, to speed up his rocket-board. Braced, too, just like he did on the ocean, when shooting a huge, roaring curl.
Anything could've happened, at that point. Alan could've fallen right off, dropped Piper, or run smash into that crazily hurtling wall. Instead, he zoomed straight through the hatch into lightning-shot blackness, then threaded a tumbling jungle of rust-eaten girders. Swooped and dove like crazy, whooping aloud as they ducked one crashing obstacle after another. The girl moved with him, shifting her balance instinctively, as anyone whose favourite mode of transport was a skateboard would know how to do.
They were nearly clear, when she shouted,
"Hippie jump!" as a falling spar cut right in front of them. They leapt upward together, avoiding a leg-shattering blow, but losing Al's rocket-board. Still interlocked, they dropped for a second or two before A: Alan's board came looping around to fetch them, and B: Piper cut on her not-very-long-lasting jet pack. Out there in the rain and sea-smell and wind, with a collapsing drill rig beneath them, Alan wanted to kiss her, for reals. Instead, they laughed aloud, hugged close and bumped face-plates.
Both rockets…Thunderbird 3 and Thunderbird 3.2 (its cheap grappling arms torn off) … rose up through the storm to pace them. Heckuva first date, y'know?
XXXXXXXXXXXX
Thunderbird 1-
Scott jerked away from the woman, surprised and confused by her continuing feel-up. Clinging to the seat's metal frame with one hand, he tried to haul her out from beneath him and up to the passenger seat. Bad idea. The cockpit hadn't closed, yet, and neither of them were strapped in.
Since his weight wasn't settled correctly, the onboard system wasn't sure what to do, and didn't respond to repeated commands that it shut the canopy. A sudden, fierce wind gust caught Thunderbird 1, as her pilot was trying to get himself situated. She rolled drunkenly, nauseatingly to port. In that heart-dropping, gut-twisting instant, he could have let go of "Ms. Roving Hands", or pushed her to safety, losing his own grip on that wet, pitching frame as he did it.
Being Scott Tracy, he chose the right thing; shoved her up higher into the cockpit, and fell. Dropped a few yards, before extending his flight-suit's red wing-cape. On the bright side, there were plenty of updrafts and crosswinds to ride. On the sh*t side, he had no way to tell where the surface was, except to make light, and pray for some kind of reflection. Cable gun wasn't an option, here. Not in weather this ugly. He was going to hit hard, and he knew it. Unless…
Working swiftly, Scott got the near-empty jet pack off, then pointed it downward. Not enough juice left to reach Thunderbird 1, but if he could just break up the water, a little…
Batted up and around like an abused cat-toy, Scott finally spotted his helmet's reflected gleam in an oncoming wave, and fired the jet pack. Just as a thundering swell rose to meet him, the jet pack ignited, its brief flare hammering the surface tension right out of that rampaging water.
He hit the bubbling surface knees-first. Hard, but not fatally so… and was rolled, driven downward, tumbled and tossed. Managed to hit his wrist comm, though, before sheer disorientation took over.
XXXXXXXXXXX
London, outside the GDF Tower, amid blaring sirens and whirling red lights-
General Steele moved through the milling crowd with complete confidence. The building had been evacuated, and fire crews were onsite, providing excellent cover for a strategic retreat in good order. Automatically, he scanned the crowd for hostile faces or sudden moves, one hand in his uniform pocket, clutching a powerful sidearm. Day was wending its way toward evening, and night would soon fall. Critical, for a man in a hurry.
He'd done nothing traceably wrong. Nothing morally wrong, Steele assured himself, blue eyes narrowed and hard. The Tracys and their ilk were nothing more than rebellious equipment. They were meant to be used until used right up, then cast aside and destroyed. The logic was clear, if harsh, and he stood by his actions.
The general slid through the crowded, gawking onlookers, headed for the safety of New Town, where he had certain contacts. Turning his head, a bit, Steele could see prisoners being brought up and out of the tower's security level. Kraft was there, and O' Bannon, as well, together with a number of collared and brain-scraped "specials"; those he'd already caught.
Steele gave the lot no more than a cursory glance before resuming his walk, until he collided with two men, almost literally. One he recognized immediately, for the tall, imposing figure of Sebastian Shaw was not soon forgotten. Dark-haired, muscular and grey-eyed, the chancellor moved like a panther. Beside him stood another, older man, with plenty of grey hair and arrogance. A nobleman, clearly; and just as clearly shaking with wrath.
"This is he?" demanded his lordship, voice a rumbling bass.
"It is, indeed, Sir Hugh," snapped Shaw, moving aggressively forward. Both men wore thousand-dollar, enhanced business suits. Both were surrounded by body guards. But, General Steele was not intimidated. Rather than cowering, or attempting to flee, he smiled. There were more weapons in his arsenal than either accuser could guess; most of them collared, and extra-human. Nodding slightly, the general said,
"Gentlemen, how may I be of assistance?"