Disclaimer: The characters and ideas expressed in this fic don't belong to the author, but fair's fair, the profit doesn't belong to the author either.
Warnings: a little gore which is mostly hinted, one bad swear word only really alluded to, my usual complete weirdness and blending of shows
Authors Notes: Hey people. Guess which series this is fusing with? Go on, guess. I know – this seems to be the kind of Thunderbirds fic I like to write – AU and weird. Oh well. It provides me with great entertainment, and I hope it does for you too. I thought I'd dabble in drabbles this time.
For those who want to know, I am still working on 'In at the Death' – I've got a sizable chunk done already, so it'll be soon. My life is full of distractions at the moment.
Please read & review.
H is for Hero – by Ryuuza Kochou
F is for Flight
"So let me see if I have this right, Scott."
"I fell off a cliff."
A sigh. "Yes Alan. You could try to be more careful."
"Technically I'm breaking a human speed records, and shortly I'd be breaking the deepest grave record too."
"The only thing that's going to save me is a sudden disruption of gravity or very, very soft rocks."
"So…okay, um….this…is where I get a little lost."
Scott sighed again. "I'm a little lost too," he smiled. "But you've got to admit, at least we both got lost with a fantastic view."
Turquoise waves lapped serenely on the jutting, mica dashed cliff, and a soft twilight breeze swirled around, lifting the gulls to glide around the pair of brothers, one gripping the other tightly, hanging against the scene with nothing but air at their feet.
Alan could still feel the earth pulling at his. Scott felt nothing at all. There was no ground, no gravity, no weight, no drag.
Nothing but flight.
M is for Move
John checked the bearings, he twisted the holding bolts, he twiddled the lenses and lowered his hands.
The nose of the telescope sank like a diving whale. Cursing audibly John began fiddling with it again. It squeaked on its swivel.
The trapdoor to the attic popped open. "Geez, John, it's two in the morning!" Gordon grumbled, red hair pointing out at about a hundred and twenty three points of the compass. "I have swimming practice in three hours!"
"I'm not going to bed until I can fix this stupid thing," John growled, tugging out a tiny screwdriver.
"Why?" Gordon looking around. "It's not like the stars are going anywhere."
"This star is," John grunted, and turned around, still squeaking the scope. "The Mackleby Comet only comes once every twenty years. It travels all the way across the sky," John drew a line of trajectory across the clear night sky. The telescope squeaked. "Curves over the horizon," squeak "and drops into the sea." Squeaksqueak. "It's most interesting and unusual cosmic event ever recorded and I don't want to miss it," John ran fingers through his hair. The telescope squeaked again.
"Er…speaking of…interesting and…unusual…" Gordon broke in, staring over John's shoulder.
John turned. The telescope turned. John raised a hand and it lifted up towards the sky. He lowered it hands and it swung downwards. "Oh," he said. There was a long pause. "That's what was wrong." John seemed to think about it. Then setting his jaw, he squinted at the telescope, and it rose like a sail, and settled into the exact angle. "There." He said with satisfaction.
Gordon's jaw dropped. "That's it? You move things without touching them and that's what you use it for? You're such a geek, John!"
R is for Regenerate
In the beginning there was…the very nasty sound of four inches of rebar being yanked out of flesh and gristle.
Sound came back. Light came back. Taste and smell came back, and were not welcome. The first thing Virgil saw was Scott's face. He had his hands on either side of Virgil's face, holding his head still. Virgil opened his cold mouth, and had to wait for his vocal chords to re-grow. Feeling them squirm inside his throat was not a feeling he ever wanted to experience twice.
Sensation was only returning in patches – except for the all embracing cold. Tingling feelings as very hot hands brushed unfamiliar parts. Which was weird – exactly how could any part of him be unfamiliar. He tried to lift his head to see, but Scott held him down.
"No, no, no; trust me, there're things you don't want to about yourself. Let's just keep some mystery, shall we?" Scott gave a tight smile. "Do you remember what happened?"
"Fell," Virgil croaked out, using air from the quarter of a lung he had left. "Site…pit…"
"That's right, you took a header into construction hole in the road works. It was either that, or get smeared across the tarmac by the drunk driver. Good call."
Scott's cheery voice was probably meant to distract him from the whispered voices, and it wasn't working. Mainly because Virgil kept hearing worrying things like;
"Hey, where does this go?"
"Get me a bucket."
"I'm going to puke."
"Oh cripes – can I get your opinion on something? Is this a heart or a liver?"
"Hey, when I hit this, that part goes…"
"Gordon! Stop that! And that's a liver – look at the size of it."
"I don't know - Virgil always was a big hearted guy."
"Guys! Can we cut the table talk!" Scott hissed.
"We better hurry this up, Dad can't distract the coroner forever," John added.
But Virgil's muscles had knitted together enough for him to push up off the autopsy table, just in time to see the flaps of the incision close up and heal over. "Urrg," was the only appropriate comment.
"You're lucky we love you, man," Gordon snapped off a pair of gloves. "I wouldn't do something that gross for just a friend."
"I take back anything I ever said about your looks," Alan added. "I think you look much better on the outside."
"Thanks," Virgil grunted as John wrapped him in a blanket. "You're compassion is underwhelming."
There were voices beyond the white, sterile, glaring bright room. "Whoops, time to go." Scott heaved Virgil off the table, and Tracy's made good their escape.
"You still good to survive the race on Sunday?"
"No problem," Virgil waved an airy hand, which was crackling back into shape as they exited. "You only live a dozen times."
I is for Invisible
Virgil glared at his workbench. Okay, now he knew something was wrong. The car keys on the hall table could have been absentmindedness, he was sure he'd gotten his bag downstairs, which didn't explain how it got upstairs, and he'd spent over an hour hunting for his cell phone by ringing it on the cordless and then being bewildered as it seemed to move from room to room. But his tools? He never absentmindedly forgot where he left them.
This was just not turning out to be his day. "Who's been messing with my work bench!" he yelled out of the basement to the rest of the house. He got a round of distant 'not me's' from the rest of the house, and counted them off under his breath. "What about you, Gordon?" he yelled back. "Gordon?" He stalked up the steps in order to bring about fully justified vengeance on his younger and more expendable sibling.
He came back ten minutes later, frustrated and unappeased. His tools had been constructed into an elaborate pyramid.
"Gordon!" he yelled, murder in his tone.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the old tarp twitch just slightly. Knowing if he hesitated Gordon would slip loose like a greased eel, Virgil lunged without thinking, intending to rip the tarp aside.
He didn't expect to bash into nothing on the way. Virgil ended up on the floor, groaning and clutching his head. His groans had an echo.
"Gordon?" Virgil looked around. "Where the hell…" Virgil's eyes narrowed as Gordon appeared, see through, then opaque, then as solid as ever, as if he had never been gone. "What the hell was that?"
"Uh..haha…I bet you're wondering how I did that," Gordon offered uneasily.
"Bet you I'm not, invisible boy," Virgil snarled, rising like the wrath of god. He yanked a wrench out of the pyramid, which came tumbling down. "Guess who's going to survive this one, Gordo?"
"Uh…gottagonowbyebye!" Gordon scrambled up the stairs. Maybe he had super speed too.
C is for Connection
The shot, the shots echoed, and they were falling all around…."No!" Alan clawed the sky as he sat up. In his bed. Not on a cold street, in a cold city, not shooting, not getting shot. But someone was about to be.
The only thing he waited to do was stuff his feet into boots. And then he was running, running out the door in nothing but sleep gear, panting and sweating. He hit the street and accelerated down it towards the car, which was had just skirted the narrow lane stretching off the roundabout. The open top car. With his brothers in it. Right, the one that was surrounded by the gang. With guns.
"Stop!" Alan screamed as one of them took aim. He jumped forward, still fifty yards distant.
And went right on jumping up, up and floating down right on the bonnet as lightly as a thistle seed.
"What the fu-"
"Alan, you can fly?"
Alan was just as shocked as they were, but not quite shocked enough to forget why he was here. He was at just the right height for a good head kick, and his booted foot swung up to catch one of them right under the chin.
"Hey!" One of them tried to grab him, but suddenly blinked and stepped back, looking right and left wildly. "Where'd he go?"
"Hey, that's my trick!" Gordon protested. Then he got down to business, and kicked the car door open, right into one guy's midriff.
A gun was ripped loose from another like it had been yanked by a string.
"That looked like one of mine," John commented, calmly reaching down to release the trunk. The lid flew up and brained two guys approaching from the rear.
Alan reappeared, as was nearly grabbed from behind, but Scott was out of the car now and dispatched the attacker with a swift left hook, and a bar room knee.
Alan was in front of him. Then Alan was on the ground to the sound of two loud bangs, and the shouts and swears of the gang as they fled. "Alan!"
Scott ignored them as he turned his brother over, staring with disbelief at the two holes punched in his chest. The others were coming, crowding around. "Call….ambulance…call," Scott stuttered as Gordon knelt down in horror, staring at Alan's wide open, empty eyes.
"Wait," John broke in, leaning closer. "Don't call anyone. Look," he pointed. The holes were contracting neatly. Alan coughed and groaned, suddenly electric and alive.
"That was one of mine," Virgil grinned.
"Ow," Alan muttered. "Does your head always…?"
"Always," Virgil assured him.
"Gross," Alan mumbled. "I don't care if you're about to be tortured horribly. Next time, you're saving yourselves!"
They all looked at each other.
"Let's face it," Alan sighed. "We're not exactly normal."