I ended up writing one short whumpy snippet and then one slightly longer fluff filled mes.
Wrong, please make it Right
Some things were right, that was simple. Like the smell of fresh baked bread, or the feel of clean cotton sheets
Other things were a little more nuanced and depended on the situation. For example the crackling of a fire, when you were safely tucked up by a fireplace was all kinds of comforting, but add in the groan of rebar steels under pressure, less so.
Other times it was about quantity, watching dust motes dance across the sunbeams was peaceful, and almost magical. But clouds of brick dust choking in from all sides, that added a different feel to the situation.
Some were even more specific to their family alone. The smell of burning food, could be strangely homely, yes you might want to try and avoid the resulting meal, but it was a sign that their grandmother loved them and that they were home and safe. But the burning smell clawing at his suits' air filters, seeming to permeate through the fabric itself, that was a dark and dangerous thing.
Right now the scales had tipped to wrong, very wrong. The warmth wasn't comforting, it was scalding, even through his suit. The pressure on his chest didn’t come from a welcomed hug, but from a terrified casualty, clawing at his uniform, even as he tried to keep them encased in the protective foil woven blanket. The dust and the heat would still get to them, but he had to do something. The ache in his back wasn’t the pleasant exhaustion after a day of work. It was the constant pressing reminder that he was pinned, trapped, only able to peer into the swirling dust, highlighted in the beam from his helmet torch, praying that his brothers would get there before it was too late.
Then he heard it, a gushing spraying sound, that if you heard it in a domestic setting would have you rushing to turn the stop cock off and calling for buckets. But now it was a welcome sound, a sound that heralded salvation. Even before Virgil had a chance to vocalise his surprise, it was accompanied by a crashing sound that would have had any structural engineer concerned. This was right, they saved people, and it might look wrong, might look like destruction, but one more person got to go home that night.
Healthy Debate
“It's just wrong!” The voice was shrill and indignant, and maybe a half octave higher than he would have liked.
“I have to agree with Alan on this one,” Virgil agreed, his voice slightly muffled from where he was digging around in a kitchen cupboard.
“Wheres your sense of adventure! Gordon jumped up from the table, his seat screeching on the floor, as he went to help Virgil in his hunt.
“Well it's all rather academic if we can’t actually find any marshmallows,” John pointed out from where he was leaning against the back of one of the high stools.
“Well it w-was only a-an academic observation,” Brains clarified, one finger in the air to note his point.
“Just because you can, doesn’t mean you should,” Alan sang out, in the sing-song rhythm of an often repeated phrase.
“Hypocrit” Gordon mumbled, swiftly catching a tumbling packet of raisins as they fell out of the cupboard Virgil was still investigating. He was now firmly embedded up to his elbows trying to reach the furthest depths, and still no sign of marshmallows.
“Marshmallows require campfires!” Alan solemnly proclaimed, with more dignity than many a prophet.
“We have the BBQ” Scott looked up briefly from whatever he was reading, then, considering his part done, went right back to reading.
“”Ewwh, Scott, No!” Gordon pulled a face to fully demonstrate his thoughts on the matter.
“Wheres your sense of adventure” Virgil parroted back, which had Gordon poking his tongue out in retaliation. “He’s right though,” Virgil continued “a gas BBQ is no replacement for a proper woodland campfire.
“What? It's got to be in the woods as well now? That escalated.” Scott's head popped up again, obviously his need to problem solve had been triggered.
“Stand down Scott, they don’t actually NEED marshmallows.” John pulled himself up onto the stool, since it didn’t look like they would be going anywhere any time soon.
“I Beg to disagree!” Gordon said, indignant around a mouth full of chocolate chips that he had liberated from a half full bag Virgil had dislodged from the cupboard.
“How did we even get onto this topic?” Scott asked, closing his book resignedly.
“I m-merely said t-that the new upgrades on the l-laser c-cutter allowed for g-greater precision. Even to the p-point you c-could toast a m-mashmallow without b-burning.”
“See!” Alan was back on his metaphorical soapbox. “It’s just wrong!”
Virgil came back to the table, brushing his hands off, having given up on his excavation of the baking supplies. “Well it doesn’t look like we will be testing it today, we’re all outta marshmallows.”
“Naawwwhh,” Gordon whined in disappointment, having poured the last of the chocolate chips into his mouth, which earned him more than one disapproving raised eyebrow.
“Well it's all going to have to stay academic for now,” John said, prodding at an alert that had just come through to his comms. “Looks like we have a situation.”
………………………………………………………………………
It was several months later when they found themselves at Creighton-Ward manor. Scott had been roped into a Rescue Scout event nearby, and his brothers used picking him up as the perfect excuse to arrive en masse. They were even under the impression that it had been their own idea, so subtle had Penelope's suggestions been. She didn’t remember suggesting the camp-out though. As they started unloading a haphazard pile of bags and boxes by the old coach house, she was more and more convinced that this was very far from the suggested programme of events she would have had in mind, if anyone had asked her. Some truly “vintage” sleeping bags were added to the pile, and only immense self control stopped an unladylike wrinkled nose. Although, really, didn’t they have some of the worlds most advanced survival gear at their disposal? Looking across at the neatly stacked items Parker had rescued from storage, Penelope became very aware that maybe she should be careful applying the term “vintage”. Although her canvas bell tent and wooden antique camp bed arguably had a little more…class.
Eventually the “right” sort of woodland clearing had been found, and the campsite set up, and the men had started debating the best way to build a fire. There were a lot of opinions that needed airing. Kayo and Lady Penelope claimed two directors' chairs that were probably older than their combined age, and watched the debate unravel.
Alan had been banished for suggesting fire starters, that may have been because the fire starters in question were low grade explosives, which Virgil promptly confiscated.
Gordon absented himself early on in proceedings, saying that fire wasn’t really his element, retreating instead to a seat on the ground at Lady P’s feet.
Scott and Virgil were debating the best way to stack the bonfire for best burn, John watched with the critically narrowed eyes that were a sure sign that he had done the calculations and was working out if it was worth pointing that out to those present. Penelope watched as he came to a conclusion, rolling his eyes, then his shoulders, he left them to it. Today was obviously a route of least resistance kind of day.
Parker decided to set the cat among the pigeons by giving his vote to a good slug of gasoline to get the fire going.
“ ‘it gets a good ‘ot burn, there won’t be h-anything h’incriminating left h’after that kind o’ fire….allegedly.”
It was hard to tell what scandalised Virgil and Scott more! And it didn’t get past Lady Penelope's notice when Parker slipped a little tightly wrapped parcel into the bottom of the wood pile in what he clearly thought was a surreptitious manner. She was curious as to what he was trying to dispose of, but everyone deserved their secrets. Anyway, Kayo probably already knew what it was. A quick communication via the medium of side glances and miniscule nods and Kayo leaned forward to whisper:
“Grandma's cookie recipes, she keeps sending him them for Lil’ to try.”
Penelope didn't even try to conceal the shudder. Gordon, mistaking it for a shiver passed her a blanket across, which would have been adorable if the blanket had been a little less authentically vintage. At least she didn’t feel guilty when Bertie jumped up on her lap to share it with her.
It was just as well they had started early, because by the time they had come to a conclusion on optimal combustion methods dusk was setting in, it was quite late in the season for camping.
Parker had retreated back to the manor, and sent a discreet message to Lady Penelope to ask if she wanted supper sent up from the kitchens. It was tempting, but Penelope felt she ought to at least try the offering that Scott had slaved over. It certainly contained a vast amount of beans, she hoped the tents were well ventilated. It all turned out to be just set dressing to the main event, which was the toasted marshmallows, or rather - Smores.
Gordon got to his feet to deliver an animated presentation on the perfect ratios of cracker, chocolate and marshmallow, down to fractions of a decimal place. It was only slightly undermined when John pointed out that his calculations didn’t add up to a round number. He had a cracker thrown at his head for that, along with a cry of “Insubordination!”
Scott went into great detail about the desired features of the optimal toasting stick. He insisted on whittling down any irregularities on the twigs until they met his exacting specification. He looked most put out when Penelope produced an antique toasting fork from the Manor. Alan, however, looked delighted, as he realised he could toast four marshmallows at a time on its tines. He was less interested in being educated that they were called tines and not “pokey bits”. He was also slightly put out by Scott stopping him from his attempt for double decker marshmallows. Alan's argument that he was testing structural tolerances were also knocked down by John’s swift application of maths.
After a copious amount of sugar, everyone would have been quite happy to succumb to the post sugar slump, if only Bertie hadn’t wanted to play fetch.
Specifically play fetch with the previously confiscated explosives. Virgil had stuffed it alongside the first aid kit as he was lacking in any better ideas. During the hunt for additional marshmallows ( why are there never enough?) the demolition charges had become dislodged and ended up at perfect Pug height.
What followed was a full Scooby-Doo chase sequence, the aged bell tent had no end of people run in and out, they should probably have put in traffic lights. A lunging dive to try and catch the normally obedient pup nearly had Scott to blame for the demise of the antique camp bed. He rolled at the last minute and ended shooting straight out under the side wall of the tent. Which made him the perfect tripping hazard for John who was trying to corner Bertie as he came charging through the tent flaps, thoroughly enjoying life. Virgil was frantically trying to block the dogs path to the fire. The eternal pacifist that he was, he was having to seriously run the numbers on if the risk of potentially crushing should he have to dive to catch the small dog v’s the risk of explosives and naked flames.
Thankfully Virgil’s conscience was saved from having to make the ultimate choice, by Gordon swiping at Bertie, missing him by a hair's breadth. But it was enough to make Bertier swerve, continuing his zoomies towards the treeline. The relief at avoiding the fire was soon replaced by the fear of losing Bertie in the undergrowth. Their cries only worked to cheer the dog on, his wagging tail taunting them.
All seemed lost, for sure, when Kayo materialised from amongst the shadows crowding the trees. Reaching down in one graceful sweep she caught the wriggling pup up into her arms. She convinced him to release the explosives by liberal application of tummy tickles. The charges were quickly handed over to Virgil, with a glare that made it very clear that a safer space should be found this time. Bertie was handed to an out of breath Penelope, who had joined the massed ranks of those who had fallen over Alan during the chase. Bertie's roaming privileges were curtailed with a magenta lead clipped to his collar for the remainder of the evening.
Parker was surprised at the response he got when he returned when dusk had well and truly turned to night. He had brought along a selection of fireworks he unearthed from the potting shed, left over from last November's bonfire night. The response had involved far more screaming and flinching away than he had anticipated. Youngsters nowadays had no sense of adventure.
It’s the 16th... so we can post this, right? I’ve been waiting since May to finally be allowed to share this XD
My contribution to this years TAG Mini Bang ( @tagminibang2022 / @tagminibang )
I got assigned to illustrate one of @womble1′s great fanfics and there was so much to chose from and many brilliant fics! ♥
But that one scene totally brought an instant image to my mind, so I had to illustrate it after I read the little story called “Rest”.
In the sunken seating area, Scott was stretched out across a sofa, head propped up on a cushion, a book in one hand, legs crossed at the ankles.
“That's right little bro,” he [note: Gordon] crouched lower, draping an arm over Alan's shoulder and lowered his voice in his best nature programme voice over impression. “Here we see a very rare sight, for a while it has been thought to be extinct by several scientific communities, it’s a resting Scott Tracy”
Hello Everybody! I have a question. Where do you guys buy the Thunderbirds action figures? I live in the US I can't really find anything even online :(
Not many people knew that. John, of course, John knew everything. Probably Grandma, she tended to really get into her cleaning crazes on occasion and he doubted there were any stones she’d left unturned on the Island. But she was discreet and respectful and he had trusted her with his life on many an occasion, so relics in the back of his closet were a no brainer.
Virgil definitely knew, being the musician of the family.
But then Virgil was the main reason why the guitar rarely saw the light of day. It wasn’t easy being brother to a musician of Virgil’s calibre. Everyone knew Virgil had what it took to make pretty much any musical instrument do whatever he wanted it to, and well. No matter how humble he was about it.
Scott had the musical training from their mother. Had even more than Virgil since he was the eldest. But time, other interests, and the overwhelming obviousness of his brother’s skill had removed whatever little bit of talent Scott had to the back of the closet.
He couldn’t live up to Virgil in the music realm, so why bother? Besides, if he wanted to be competitive about it all, Scott left Virgil in the dust in a lot of other areas anyway.
He was quite happy to let his brother have this one.
Scott Tracy didn’t have to be the best at everything, did he?
After they lost their mother, music became ever more sacred in their household. Virgil adopted their mother’s piano and the family looked to him for solace for the missing music of their mother.
Scott did, too. Scott loved to listen to Virgil play the piano. He was ever so proud of him.
But somewhere deep inside, there was the occasional need to grab his guitar and play. Maybe he had a few long-ignored genes from his mother. Perhaps Virgil was rubbing off on him. Was creativity contagious?
In any case, the guitar stayed with him and on those extremely rare moments when he was alone and not exhausted, he would sometimes take it out and pluck a few rusty chords.
No one ever heard him. The villa soundproofing took care of that. Just simple strumming. Quiet notes exercising rusty skills.
In those times he would think of his mother. Remember her sitting beside him, showing him how the guitar worked. It wasn’t her primary instrument. That was the piano. But she knew the theory and young Scotty Tracy wanted to be a rock star one day, just like all five-year-olds. Admittedly, this five-year-old tended to visualise being said rockstar while standing on top of a variety of fast moving aircraft, all concept of physics yet to become fully understood, but the spirit was there.
He learnt the fingerings as his younger brother started piano recitals, excelling above all expectations and beyond Scott’s little triflings.
It was meant to be and Scott had no argument with it. Virgil was the creative fountain in the family as much as John was the genius, Gordon the fish and Alan…well, Alan hadn’t settled on his niche yet, but then was showing all the signs of settling on several. A little like Virgil, come to think of it.
As he sat on the edge of his bed, the guitar was light on his leg. The strings needed tuning and he ran through maintenance without thought, long fingers tweaking sound. Once satisfied, he let out a breath and his shoulders dropped.
The first notes were a balm on his soul.
The guitar was unlike the piano. The piano was Virgil. The piano was his mother. The guitar…was something just for himself.
It was a simple six string classical, nothing fancy like the electric guitar that was little more than an ornament on Alan’s bedroom wall. Scott plucked each string gently, pulling each individual sound out rather than blurring them together. A simple tune for a simple instrument played simply with his simple skill.
It was a comfort, perhaps from his mother, just for him. Perhaps in memory of times long gone.
Maybe just something he liked to do for no reason at all.
No pressure.
No demand.
Just simple sound for his ears only.
The notes danced.
And he played.
-o-o-o-
Click here to read the wonderful sequels by @gaviiadastra and @womble1
1. A disaster that causes someone to tell a child (or children) "I don't think Santa's gonna make it this year."
2. An unexpected, heartfelt gift.
3. A case of mistaken identity.
So like a top chef I have decided to do “mistaken Identity three ways” a deconstructed (some might say disjointed) take on the final prompt, with a scattering of the other two - as a seasoning - if you will.
- - -
Mistaken Identity take 2
John had been running through some data diagnostics when a call came through, and his mind may have been still running through the numbers as it connected, thereby denying him a small subsection of his available processing power to help him make sense of what he was faced with.
Instead of a ⅔ portrait rendering of the caller as was the usual case, there was instead a pudgy fist and a crumpled piece of paper, taking up the whole of the image. Still, not one to be easily put off, John corralled his errant braincells into a cohesive mass and plowed onwards.
“Hello, you’re through to International Rescue, what seems to be the problem?”
“Fadda Chrissssmus!” a young voice bellowed, causing some component in the highly advanced speakers to audibly rattle. John adjusted the output volume as he took a moment to think what to do next.
“You're through to International Rescue, not the North Pole, do you require assistance?” Ok, so do you require assistance was possibly not the most child accessible phrasing he had ever used, but it was done now and the child didn’t seem overly bothered by the more formal address.
“Needa talk to Fadda Chrissmus!” the fist shifted and John was now able to see the very serious expression on his young callers face. He had to quickly override his urge to laugh at the earnest frown he was being given. He was reminded of Alan as a child when he put his heart and soul into arguing which constellation was which when they were stargazing together with their father, completely undeterred when he was gently corrected by an actual honest-to-god astronaut. John would guess his callers age at around 3 years old, but the serious look could have come straight from one Commander Scott Tracy, even down to the piercing blue eyes. This was not a child who was likely to be easily deterred.
Pushing those comparisons aside for the minute, John realised he was expected to answer.
“Umm, yeah, Santa isn’t here, sorry…” he would have continued if the boy on the other end hadn’t had other ideas.
“No,” he cut in “I needa talk to Fadda Chrissmus,” he said it slowly, annunciating each mangled syllable carefully in an amazingly patronising way for one so small. “Needa tell him ‘bout the baby, coz the baby can’t say wat he wants for Chrisssmus.” the child rattled on with his narrative at breakneck speed, causing another comparison to a certain older brother back on earth. “An’ baby comed early, an is stayin’ in da hosssipul, and Fadda Chrissmus won't know, but if he brings it to my house, I can gives it to baby, but he needs to knows - see?” The child had clearly put a lot of thought into the logistics involved, the frown still hadn't left his face, conflicting with the cherubic rosey cheeks and golden curls.
John tried to work out what he could say to placate the child, not really wanting to dismiss them and their efforts too lightly now that he had a bit more of an idea of the situation.
“Well, I’m sure Santa knows all about your new sibling, his elves do a lot of research, so I’m sure he's made provisions for the baby.” he delivered it as seriously as he could, knowing full well how grumpy young children could get when they thought they were being laughed at - (although that might have had more to do with being mocked by 4 older brothers in Alans case.)
“Yeah, no, but I needs tell him - myseeeel” he drew the last word out, pointing a pudgy finger at his own chest, making it clear he thought that John was a little dense for not understanding that important point.
“Ok,” John tried another tract “Santa isn't here though….”
“Is Ok, I wait.” the child cut in, parroting a phrase he had clearly heard used by an adult at some point. To further his intent, a pair of arms in a slightly oversized christmas jumper, were folded across his chest, and if he had been any older John would have said he had squared his shoulders. This child was definitely giving off commander vibes, and would no doubt be an absolute terror when he hit his teens. John suppressed a smile at the memory of Scott facing off against all comers who might have posed a threat to his brothers as a child. Faced with an immovable force, John did what he always did, and looked for a way round. Some might say that his own childhood, filled with stubborn brothers (and an equally stubborn source of the genetic trait in their father) had made John quite adept at finding solutions that gave the impression that everyone was getting what they wanted, whilst still playing into John's own aims.
It didn't take long for John's nimble mind to come up with a way to resolve the current stalemate.
“Ok, can you hold the line for one moment please, Santa is just in a meeting, I’ll see if I can connect you.” he muted the line and put in a call to Tracy Island, fingers mentaly crossed for who might answer the call.
“Hi John” Virgil's voice rumbed as the call connected, and John gave a little internal cheer at hitting jackpot first try.
“Ah ha, just the person!” ok, so not all the joy was internalised.
“What's the situation and where am I headed?” Virgil was already starting to turn towards his launch chute, despite his brothers deviation from the usual script.
“Ah, no, no situation as such, I just need to make use of your other… ummm…attributes.”
“Well, that's more than a little terrifying” Virgil said, stopping and turning back to the holo-display, one eyebrow raised in question.
“Remember how you used to do that impression of Dad? Do you think you can still do it?” John asked, quickly.
“John, what is this all about, are you alright? You don’t need a parent to sign off your sick notes anymore, you can just come home.” Virgil was beginning to think there was more truth in the phrase cabin fever than he had previously allowed. His eyes drifted to the display in the desk, looking to see if he could get a glimpse at John's Biometric readings.
“What?” John looked as confused as Virgil felt. “No, I just need you to play Santa for me, I’ve got a rather demanding customer on the line who's holding out to speak to the big guy himself.”
“And you need me for this, why?”
“Multiple points really,” John listed them on his fingers “1. Your voice is nearer to the deeper tones usually associated with Santa Clause. 2. You’ve always had a lot of patience with children. 3. You're less likely to wind the kid up to distraction like a certain aquanaut and 4. You’re available - which is a strong factor as we have a tight deadline here.”
“O….K, and the fact that I don't look anything like old saint Nick doesn’t feature on your list?” Virgil looked incredulous.
“EOS, can you find some appropriate filters, make him look the part a bit more please?”
“Certainly John,” came EOS's efficient reply. Barely a second had passed before Virgil's image had antlers and a round red nose added to it.
John spluttered at the sight, especially as the red nose glowed softly. “Thank you EOS, but I was thinking more of Father Christmas, not Rudolph.”
Virgil jabbed at the controls on the central table until he was able to see his own image in miniature next to John's floating self. A synthesized childish giggle suggested that EOS was quite proud of her own joke, evenso she swiftly shifted the filters to render Virgil closer to the jolly old man they were aiming for.
“Much better, thank you EOS. Right Virgil, I’m going to patch the child through. Sitrep: child wants to update Santa about the recent premature arrival of their new sibling, who is still in hospital. So we're looking for some reassurance and general Christmas small talk, ok?”
“Wow, John, way to pair it down to the clinical bones.”
“A simple FAB would suffice ‘Santa’.” John quipped back as he connected the child, minimising his own image, but still staying within the comms link in case he was needed / because he was nosy.
Virgil's eyes went wide as he was suddenly face to face with a stubborn scowl of epic proportions, he would have bet actual money that the child was also tapping his foot in irritation.
“Umm, ho ho ho, hello there little one.” Virgil mangled up the impression of his father, it had been quite some time since it had been needed and he was a little rusty.
“Riight, Mister Chrisssmas. Gotta update yous bout the baby see?” John was becoming increasingly intrigued about what this kids' parents did for a living, as he seemed to have picked up a startling amount of business buzzwords. The child continued to give Santa the “lowdown” on the situation, this time littering in such facts as the name of the hospital, and the babys name. John could already see the cogs turning behind Virgil's eyes as he got more and more swept up in the tale.
John discreetly pulled up a secondary display within the comms sphere, only to find it already populated with the hospital details based off a triangulation of the incoming calls location and a best guess of what “mornin’slide hopittal” might be (Morningside Hospital, as it turned out), alongside a list of age appropriate gift suggestions for both sibling. He cocked an eyebrow at EOS’s camera, which did its best attempt at looking bashful, no mean feat when you only have 6 colours and one lens to express yourself through.
Text started scrolling across the data screen
EOS: [ I’m merely preempting the questions we both know Virgil will ask as soon as he finishes impersonating the elderly housebreaker.] which nearly resulted in John snorting out loud. He typed back with one hand whilst keeping an eye on the conversation that was still progressing.
John: [I don’t think you’re meant to call Santa and “elderly Housebreaker”]
EOS: [I don’t see what is inaccurate about my description, he sneaks into homes that are not his own. This is most definitely in violation of the concept of PRIVACY, that you have gone to great lengths to explain to me John.]
John: [well, yes, whilst privacy and illegal trespassing are serious issues, I don’t think they apply to fictional characters]
EOS: [if Santa is fictional, why are we getting Virgil to lie to this small human?]
John: [EOS, that's a subject that will take some explaining, why don’t you go and research Christmas traditions as a starting point and we can pick this up later?]
The cursor stopped flashing, indicating that EOS had moved the bulk of her processing power to a different area of the space station. John let out a slight sigh, knowing that he had only stalled the inevitable conversation, and half wondering how he was going to explain such things as the easter bunny and the tooth fairy.
By this point Virgil had managed to sufficiently reassure the child that their baby brother would not be missed out on Christmas eve. Pudgy arms had unfolded from across his chest, but the stern expression remained and the little mogul signed off the call with a firm nod and a decisive : “Ok, good chat, ‘k byeee”.
As the call disconnected Virgil let out a low whistle and ran a hand over his face.
“Wow, that was intense! Hey John…?” he went to ask
“Already on it, pick out what you want from these and I’ll get them dispatched today.” John flicked at a display and Virgil's personal comms chimed.
“Huh?” he pulled it out to see what his brother had sent him, and then frowned, “....but how?”
“You're predictable Virgil,” John cut in, “honestly if you hadn't finished that conversation without coming over all altruistic then I would have had to check your pulse or assume you were being impersonated. I mean the kid looked like Alan's double at that age, and you were always a push over with him too.”
Virgil opened his mouth to protest, but on consideration realised he didn't have a leg to stand on and shut it again. He blushed slightly and shrugged.
John chuckled softly at his brother's embarrassment before carrying on, “So, anyway, what are you gonna send ‘Santa’?” pushing past the discomfort by focusing on practical tasks.
Virgil took the distraction willingly and busied himself by scrolling through the items EOS had collated. The majority of which were coldly clinical or boringly practical. Although a new baby might well need a set of 6 white bibs, it was hardly going to excite. Towards the bottom of the list he spotted a twin set of lop eared plush rabbit toys, one larger and one smaller, which would easily fit within a hospital incubator, both were a deep navy with little gold stars scattered across the ears in neat little stitches. He selected the bunnies and looked up with a grin to see what John's reaction to his selection would be. He wasn’t disappointed by the soft smile that spread across John's face.
“John,” Eos cut through the sentimental moment. “ I don't think Santa is going to make it this year.”
Virgil looked crestfallen. John, however, just frowned.
“Yes,EOS, we know he's a fictional character, but we’re keeping the magic alive for the children,” he said patiently.
“No John, I mean the delivery times to that part of the world are predicting arrival post Christmas” she explained, flashing the delivery dates up on the display. Causing John's frown to deepen, but as he looked back up again he noticed the bright look in Virgil’s eye.
“NO!” John did not beat around the bush.
“What?” Virgil’s eyes went wide and he tried to look as innocent as possible, realising he had been rumbled.
“You know what. Just because those have a longer delivery time does not mean you get to go and use ‘Two as your own personal sleigh. We’ll just find something else that can get there sooner.”
“Well actually John,” EOS was ever ready with the facts, “I’ve cross referenced 200 different retailers and none of them are able to guarantee pre Christmas delivery. It appears that the remote location and strengthening works being completed on the main bridge to the area is affecting all deliveries over the festive season.”
“no , Virgil - No!”
“Oh come on John,” Virgil weadled, “think of the kiddies!”
“Oh fine! There are still funds left in the charity budget for this financial year,” he said pulling up a spreadsheet, “so you better source some more toys for the other patients to make it worthwhile launching ‘Two.” he locked Virgil with a stern look, but a smile was trying to take up residence at the corners of his mouth despite his iron self control.
Virgil's face nearly split in two with the massive grin that stretched across his face.
“F.A.B!” he joyously replied, all but skipping out of the room to complete his allotted task.
With a little help from EOS’s filters and some well positioned projectors Thunderbird Two even managed to have a glowing red nose for this special task.
The hospital may have been a little surprised by the pallet full of neatly labeled presents in their service yard on Christmas morning, but an anonymous tip off from a young sounding caller meant that they were ready with a few volunteers to help distribute the gifts from their mysterious benefactors……
1. A disaster that causes someone to tell a child (or children) "I don't think Santa's gonna make it this year."
2. An unexpected, heartfelt gift.
3. A case of mistaken identity.
So like a top chef I have decided to do “mistaken Identity three ways” a deconstructed (some might say disjointed) take on the final prompt, with a scattering of the other two - as a seasoning - if you will.
- - -
Mistaken Identity take 3
Scott sucked the air in harshly as the ice pack gently molded to the curve of his ankle.
“There you go, you know the drill, alternate hot and cold and keep it elevated.” Virgil tweaked the cushion under Scotts foot to balance the icepack a little better. “So the perfect time for catching up on some rest - hey?” Virgil stepped to the head of the bed and with one palm firmly pushed Scott back into the pillows stacked behind him. Scott let himself sink into the cushioned pile and tilted his head back until it met the headboard, trying to hide the wince. He got away with it as Virgil was busy carefully extracting the blanket from the foot of the bed without dislodging Scotts poor abused foot. This task completed, the blanket was flicked out and draped over Scotts legs, leaving his foot sticking out at the bottom.
He tapped Scotts knee smartly twice to catch his attention, “it doesn't look like Santa will be making his rounds tonight,” he fixed Scott with a firm glare, before spoiling the serious effect by breaking into a grin. “I can't believe how long you kept that up!” He laughed.
“I just wanted him to have some good childhood memories…..like we got,” Scott said with only a hint of a huff, turning his head away from Virgil's gaze. Virgil lazily batted at Scotts arm with one hand.
“Don’t start that, he had good memories, we made sure of that. But those last few years he was probably a bit old to be believing in Santa.”
Scott just shrugged, if he was honest with himself, he had probably kept the tradition going as much for himself as for Alan. Putting on the old red jacket became part of his festive ritual, even if the white fur trim had gotten a little raggedy over the years.
Virgil knew that look and was quick to cut into his brother's trip down memory lane before it got too maudlin. “Anyway, stay off your feet and if you’re lucky you might be back up and about for Christmas tomorrow. OK?”
Scott gave a sloppy two fingered salute and let his head slump back into the pillows. “Ok doc, you got it!”
-------------------------------
Much later that evening, Virgil was just sneaking down the lounge to put a few last minute additions into the Christmas stockings when he came across a figure in a very familiar red jacket, complete with patchy white fur trim.
“Oh Scott, you’re not meant to be up.”
He was forced to double take when the figure turned round and showed themselves not to be his foolhardy brother.
“Oh, hey Dad” Virgil fumbled for what to say next, “....what are you doing?”
“Hi Virgil, it just didn't seem like Christmas eve without this old thing,” he said tugging at the bottom of the rather worn jacket, “especially when I spotted it at the back of my closet, can’t believe this old thing is still knocking around.”
“Yeah” Virgil chuckled, “Scott might have borrowed it a few times, you know, for old times sakes.'' This gave his fathers smile a more melancholy tinge, and Virgil was quick to jump on it before his thoughts could move on to sadder memories. “I don't think the terrible two bought it for a minute, but I guess that's what traditions are all about.” A muffled creak from the top of the mezzanine floor had him turning around, just in time to spot the aforementioned siblings lying on their stomachs peering through the railings overlooking the lounge.
Realising they were caught, Gordon shrugged his blanket off his shoulders and sat up waving shyly, “oh hey guys, don’t mind us.”
“What ARE you doing?” Virgil stared up at them.
Alan also pushed himself upright, a few snacks rolling away as his own blanket shifted, he looked a little embarrassed “Just - umm, just our own Christmas tradition really.”
“Hey, someone had to keep Alan occupied while you guys were sorting the presents and stuff,” Gordon was indignant as he tried to sound like the responsible bigger brother, and not a midnight feast enabling troublemaker. “Just kinda became our thing - the Santa Stakeout”
Virgil just laughed, “Did Scott know?”
“Of course not! We’re like Santa searching Ninjas!” Gordon said, making a few karate chop moves, all whilst still half wrapped in blanket and sat on the floor.
“They were usually snoring away by the time I came down with the presents,” Jeff said with a fond grin,”guess it begs the question why I still bothered with this old thing, but hey, it's festive.” He adjusted the jacket slightly in an attempt to make it hang better, but no amount of tweaking was going to do much for the poor old abused fabric.
Virgil laughed again, “oh god, you’re all as bad as each other. I’m going to bed he said , turning to go back up the stairs. He ducked at the last minute to surreptitiously stuff one last tiny present, that had been tucked in his palm, into one of the stockings.
“You never got past us though Virg!” Gordon called out, “sneaking extra presents in ‘from Santa’ - you big softy!” Virgil tried to scowl up at his brothers in response to that, but the genuine joy on their faces soon crumbled away his anger at being mocked, and he made do with sticking his tongue out at them before trotting up the stairs.
“Come on boys, bedtime for you too, you know what Grandma’s like, she’ll be up at the crack of dawn wanting to open her presents.” Jeff said, waving his arms in a shooting motion up at the mezzanine level. “I might have missed a few years, but I guarantee, some things never change.” he said, his voice full of warmth and love at the idea of his first family Christmas in over eight years.
1. A disaster that causes someone to tell a child (or children) "I don't think Santa's gonna make it this year."
2. An unexpected, heartfelt gift.
3. A case of mistaken identity.
So like a top chef I have decided to do “mistaken Identity three ways” a deconstructed (some might say disjointed) take on the final prompt, with a scattering of the other two - as a seasoning - if you will.
- - -
Mistaken Identity take 1
It was late on Tracy Island, a few lamps and the blueish light of the hologram the only light in the lounge. Scott and John had been finalising details on a mission report for the GDF, but that task had long been completed and set aside, leaving a rare opportunity for two brothers to relax and shoot the breeze. But time waits for no Thunderbird and eventually all good little rescue operatives must heed the siren call of morpheus.
“Ok, that’s it.” Scott said, stretching, a yawn escaping despite his best efforts, “I’m gonna sign off, its so late it's nearly early,”
“Copy that,” John agreed, trying to stifle a similar yawn, “Night Scott,” he said, disconnecting the call with a single sweep of his hand.
Scott got stiffly to his feet, glad that there were no witnesses as he cautiously twisted the kinks out of his back with an audible crack. He picked up his empty glass from the coffee table and dutifully trapsed it back to the kitchen, aware that he ought to set a good example or Gordon would see it as a green light to leave his mess everywhere. As he headed back through the lounge, intent on heading to bed by the quickest route possible, he was surprised to see John’s orange icon blinking on the desk, showing him as still online. Scott frowned, John usually wasted no time when finally logging off, well aware how quickly he could be called on again. John had always been something of an opportunistic sleeper, and regular rotations in space had only exacerbated the trait over the years. Scott sluggishly prodded at the flashing light to put a call through to TB5, but the call went unanswered, which was confusing in itself, when John was usually the king of multitasking.
Up in space, John was just as confused by the situation he found himself in. One last call had come through and he whispered a quick prayer to Mercury in his guise of the Roman god of eloquence, messages, communication and luck (less so for the other elements of his godly roles - god of Trickery and thieves) before connecting the call.
“International Rescue, what seems to be the situation?” he asked, donning his last reserves of professionalism to paste over the creeping tiredness.
“Yes! Right, I’ve had a letter through and I want you to know I’m not happy about it” a rather stern voice blared out at him from the speakers.
“A letter?” John scrabbed to work out how this was relevant to him.
“Yes, I’ve got the reference number right here, you’ll want that no doubt.” There was an audible shuffling of papers, which John found strange enough in this day and age. “Reference: F89762...now is that a three? No, definitely 2. Have you got that? Hello?”
“Hello, ma’am, this is International Rescue, we don’t send letters or use reference numbers, I think you have the wrong number.”
“No, don’t try and fob me off, I know who I called, International Revenue and you’re going to sort this out now, I refuse to spend any more time on hold.”
“I’m sorry Ma’am, but this isn't International Revenue, we can’t help you with your query.” He said firmly, trying to cut short the next wave of complaint.
“Now I know you're lying, I recognise your voice from the last time I got through to a real person, and I can tell you I have had just about enough of this!” the voice scolded.
It was at this point that Scott, disgruntled by not being able to get through on a video call, resorted to sending a text message instead.
Scott: [I thought you were meant to be logging off?]
John batted the message away, just focusing on getting rid of his current caller was enough for his tired brain right now.
“And another thing!” the voice continued on its rant.
Scott: [You do know I can see you’ve seen that message, right?]
John wanted to growl, but made do with flicking the message away with a little more force than was necessary.
“Young man, this is frankly not the sort of service I expect and I am very disappointed!” the voice droned on, John was very glad it was an audio only call, as schooling his features into something inoffensive right now would be a challenge.
Scott: [come on, what's so important that it can’t wait?] There was a slight pause, before, having still received no response, Scott tried a different approach.
[is there anything I can help close down for you?]
“And I have made a note of how many calls I have had to make to get this sorted…” there was more shuffling of papers down the line before the caller started listing dates, times and call lengths.
Scott: [John, seriously, don't make me order your damn ass to bed!] John was now feeling thoroughly hen-pecked from all sides and he clenched his jaw in frustration.
John [Yes sir, commander sir!] John messaged back, hoping that the sarcasm wasn’t lost in transit.
“And I demand to speak to your superior immediately!” the voice had reached a crescendo of righteous fury now.
Scott: [there's no need to be like that] which confirmed that the tone of John's message had been received as intended.
John: [ok Scott, you want to help? Here, incoming!] John hurled the message back at Scott. Now giving up all pretense of professional courtesy, he transferred his current caller with absolutely no preamble, since all he was getting now was a long list of his supposed shortcomings from his irate “customer”. The commander could deal with this, John was well and truly done as he switched himself to offline.
Scott was briefly relieved when he saw the call coming in from TB5, but that relief was shortlieved, when instead of John on the line, he was greeted by a barrage of abuse from a lady who had an awful lot of grievances she wished to be known about International Revenue. He was slightly taken aback, but Scott Tracy had not made it this far in life without learning how to make himself heard in an argument. He squared his shoulders, channeled every scrap of Jeff Tracy DNA sitting within him, funneled it through a composure earnt on parade grounds and very forcefully cut his way through the tirade currently assaulting his eardrums.
“Ma’am!” he all but barked, barely keeping it just this side of polite. “This is International Rescue,” he continued, having made himself an opening in the conversation, “ and whatever grievances you might have with International Revenue, we will not be able to assist, so unless your life is in imminent danger I am going to have to ask you to vacate the line in case you block and incoming emergency call.” he knew that EOS was more than capable of fielding more than one call, but this caller didn’t need to know that, and he hoped it might hurry them on their way. The shocked silence gave him hope that he might have got through to them.
“International Rescue?” They seemed appropriately surprised
“Yes Ma’am,” Scott said a little softer this time.
“Well, that young man never said, I think that's disgraceful, leading me on, taking up my time, when he had absolutely no intention of helping. It’s disgusting! I want him put on a disciplinary notice, it's a disgrace!” The rant started up again in full force.
Scotts jaw hung loose in shock for a second, people really could be the worse.
“Ok, I think we’ve covered as much as we are going to here,” Scott interrupted, any guilt he might have felt about his poor manners in doing so, safely outweighed by the caller's own rudeness. With a dramatic sweep of his arm, which even John would have been proud of, Scott cut the call, and without a backwards glance, headed straight to bed and the sweet oblivion of sleep.
