Disclaimer: The characters and concepts don't belong to the author. Darn it.

Warnings: None really – it's a little bit fractured, much like some of my other fics

Authors Notes: I know, I know! 'In at the Death'! I've done another chunk, but it may be another week yet. I have a good reason – four people have left our office and we only had nine to begin with. I'm doing someone else's work as well as my own, and my days were pretty full to begin with. Churning out one shots is easier – it's close-ended. But keeping track of my major stories takes more concentration and time than I have at my disposal at the moment. All I can do is beg for patience.

Now, about this story. My newest favourite 'Heroes' has of course come into play with my crossover madness. Since a few of you expressed interest in a crossover between the Tracy's and the Heroes, I got to thinking on it. This isn't really a story – it's more like a set of linear notes, an opening stanza, a prologue and a little bit of me enjoying myself without meaning, as is my want. If I take it up, it won't be until after my other fics are done and dusted, though. I post it just to reassure that I'm still here.

I thought I'd give the boys different powers than they had in 'H is for Hero' – I'm not going to copy stuff that's already inside that universe. Took me a while to come up with them.

Enjoy. Tell me what you think. Give me some ideas. Reviews please people!


Something's Happening to Me – by Ryuuza Kochou


Jeff dialled slowly and carefully, concentrating on each number past his pounding headache. "Hello, yes? I'm looking for a Doctor Suresh…? Chennai University? Do you have the number?


John Tracy

Thunderbird Five – LaGrange Point Two

"Dad? Something's going screwy with the power generator. I might have to come…Dad? Dad?" the image faded to black, along with every vital LED on the console. They shimmered away erratically, like a disco board and the temperature dropped again. Cursing, John fiddled with switches and hit buttons. Deader than New York at eight in the morning New Years Day.

He slammed his hands onto the board. "Damn!"

Contrary to all engineering myths about percussive maintenance, the lights lit up under his hand. They bloomed outwards again.

John stared at it. It shouldn't do that. He was an electrician, and currents didn't start from the middle of a circuit. The emergency lights dimmed and faded, casting him into pitch blackness, except for the expanding circle radiating from his palms.

There was something…wrong here. John felt his skin fizz, like he'd been dunked in soda water. He snatched his hands back like they were seared, and the lights switched off on the console and re lit all around. It was almost like its power was being redirected.

Without meaning to, John backed up warily into a side monitor. It jerked violently as John started when it hit him, teetered and rattled loose off it's cracked mooring that John had been meaning to fix. It flipped off. John darted for it and felt…weight suddenly hit him. Whirling an arm to try to meet the imbalance, John felt the ethereal, invisible weight shift and swing through him. As a sensation it was hard to describe – it was like standing in the middle of a seesaw, except the seesaw was going through him, not under him. The weight left him…and his chair bounced up, off it's anchor and sprawled on the floor.

The screen was undamaged – and it should have been. They were expensive and delicate things, designed for the clarity of contrast and speed of response, not really for robustness. But it lay as innocently as a dropped feather as the chair, across the room, bore the brunt of the impact, which had been redirected.

Through him.

John stood very carefully away from everything possible, not touching anything, feeling like an aspirin dropped in a glass of water. Raising one shaking hand to the comm screen, he concentrated, and the fizzing seemed to flow up to his fingertips and brew over. The overhead lights dimmed and died.

The comm. screen lit up, his father's worried face was in it. "John, are you alright? Did you fix it?"

"Um…sort of…" John replied weakly.


"No Suresh. Suresh! The geneticist, not the literature professor. What? What d'you mean, which one? How many have you got?"


Gordon Tracy

Thunderbird Four – North Sea

"Thunderbird Four, in the accident zone," Gordon announced, unzipping his silvers to reveal a diving dry suit. "Sorry Thunderbird Two, no way can the cutting laser cut loose the diving bell. It's not delicate enough. Looks like this is going to be a manual job. Please confirm, over."

"FAB, Four," Scott's voice came back. "Keep an eye on your life monitors, Gordon. The water's not so fine."

"Are you kidding? This is just a brisk couple of laps." Gordon replied cheerfully, getting his mask on and his hands around the portable underwater cutter. He was glad they couldn't see his face up there when he actually opened the airlock and swam out.

Actually, once the initial shock was over, it wasn't too bad. The dry suit worked like a charm, the waters were clear and the damage to the diving bell wasn't extensive. It wasn't designed to take the fibrous fishing net tangling it halfway to the deep sea bed, but it was holding up remarkably well.

What IR had on its hands, really, was a genuine, industrial grade snag. The crane on the small research boat couldn't haul the bell back up with a metric half tonne of netting added to the weight, and bell couldn't go any further down and the researchers inside couldn't swim out without turning into human tuna.

The netting parted easily enough under the cutter. It took a lot of manoeuvring to keep from getting tangled himself, but Gordon managed to detach enough of the netting for the bell to slowly free itself.

"Up she goes, boys," Gordon encouraged the bell upwards, shearing through the last of the nasty fibres. He didn't want to leave the net there, lousing up this area of sea, but there were others coming to take care of it.

"Okay, Gordon, enough showboating," Scott's voice came down. "Get back up here – your life signs are reading too cold."

"Cold?" Gordon asked, mystified. "What screen are you reading? It's mild down here."

"Enough with the macho bragging. Your suit says your temp is at ninety seven and dropping. Get back in the damn sub."

"What?" Gordon was taken aback. If his core temperate was dropping he'd have numbness and shakes and incoherency and stutters. He would feel it. Gordon didn't feel a lick of cold. "It must be busted. It's not that bad down here."

"Gordon, there's freaking iceon the surface," Virgil cut in.

There was? Gordon looked up towards the shifting ocean sky.

There weren't just chunks of opaque ice bobbing and dancing above him. There was a trail of ice rising to the surface. Leading back to…him…
He stared at himself. His body was iced over, great chunks breaking off and floating away. Odd shaped curvy trails floated around him before breaking up in the currents. Even as he watched, his hands formed crystalline spikes of ice that broke off as he hurriedly shook them.

"…" he said softly, looking around the suddenly unfamiliar seas.

"Gordon, get back inside! You're temp's down to ninety five!"

"Okay…yeah, I think I'll do that…" Gordon tried to ignore the way the hatch iced over as he touched it. When he was back inside, it didn't help. Freezing vapour rising from his body filled the inside with a very thick fog.

"Gordon! What's going on down there! Thunderbird Four, respond!"

I should be feeling this, Gordon thought. No. With this kind of cold he shouldn't be feeling anything at all, ever again.

He reached for the controls. This turned out to be a mistake. The stick broke off – shattered off – in his hands. His ears started to pop. He was rising?

What was going on here?

On the surface, Scott was still trying to raise Gordon, when Virgil broke in. "Hey Scott. Check out the surface. Where the hell did that iceberg come from?"

Scott looked out of Thunderbird One's windows. There it was, a massive chunk of ice was ascending, covered in spikes. The ice hadn't been worn down by the waves.

He blinked. "Here's another question. Why is it yellow in the middle?"

"Uh…guys?" Gordon's voice broke in. "A little help?"


"New York? You mean he's in New York? Does he share his father's speciality?"


Virgil Tracy

Structure Fire – Calais, France

"Virgil! Pull out! The place is about to go up! Pull out now!"

Virgil fought his way through the smoke and flames. His eyes watered and his vision blurred behind his mask. But he focused again, and he could see them. "There's still people in here, Scott!"

"Negative, negative. Scans show no one else in that room. Get out of there!"

Virgil's eyes blurred again, and he lost sight of the huddled forms. Coughing, he plunged in what seemed like the right direction. His eyes were filled with reds and blues, whites and blacks, stark contrasts. There must be chemicals in here somewhere, because the flames were turning every sort of colour, pinks and greens and blues and violets. Virgil blinked, and they changed back to normal. What?

"Virgil! It's all coming down! Get out!"
No! Virgil could see the people again…except…it wasn't like he was just seeing them, he was also seeing their bones and their hearts beating and the sparking networks of their brains and nervous systems and their souls. Virgil blinked again, and there was nothing but smoke.

He shot through it, and nearly ran into a wall. A wall? Those people had been right there! Above him, the burning ceiling groaned.

Virgil blinked, and suddenly the wall was gone…well, not gone, but a network of vague angles and shadows in the air. And through that, were the people, their living hearts throbbing fast and their lungs heaving (he knew, he could see them) surrounded by the most beautiful filigree of nerves and vessels. And past them was another set of indescribable angles of solid matter and past that was Thunderbird One, hovering outside the building, glowing with glittering chips and circuits like the sword of the Eastern Gate, burning with white fire. Somewhere beneath the glittering geometric Scott sat, skeletal and sparking hands gripping the controls. And yet at the same time the wall was a wall, the people were flash and blood, the Thunderbird was solid metals, and the flames and smoke were more than just psychedelic colours. Virgil's head ached, trying to make sense of the layers within layers within layers.


With his new eyes, Virgil traced the line of the wall, and found the edges of the door and the knotted angles of the tumblers and latches and locks of the door knob. He reached for it, hit his hand as he tried to reach through it, but finally got a grip on the knob and turned it.

The people – their skulls, their eyes with the tiny muscles shifting - looked up at him. One of them was wearing a gun under his jacket, it's lines where bright and sharp and dense. Cop?

"We've got to get out of here. Follow me. Thunderbird Two, blast the building with foam, get me some time!"

"FAB. Move it!" Gordon yelled.

Overhead, the ceiling became a twisted, sagging knot of lines swirled into glowing neon fire. Virgil could see where the supports were breaking down. "This way!" He led them around the sagging danger spots and out of the danger zone.

"Virgil! What the hell happened in there? How did you find them? Not even the scans picked them up!"

"I…don't know…"


"Look, I just need to know if there's any address or record on a Mohinder Suresh somewhere in New York – he would have had to have put that on his Visa somewhere…what? What do you mean, he's left the country?"


Scott Tracy

Thunderbird One Silo – Undisclosed Location

"Come on you stupid…" Scott grunted angrily as he tried to haul loose the panel on his 'bird. He tugged at it, but it was no good. It must be warped. Sighing, he went to find a crowbar.

Even with the crowbar, the panel on the thrusters resisted him gamely. Grunting and cursing (under his breath – Dad did not approve of people cursing at machines. 'It won't help fix them' he always said), he heaved at it, but it wouldn't budge.

Frustrated he banged the crowbar against the panel – only lightly, just enough to relieve is feelings.

The panel fell away. In two neat, separate halves, sliced as cleanly as if a ruler had been used. Scott's jaw dropped open. What?

His hands started to feel weird – it was like his sense of touch was suddenly hypersensitive. The metal under his hands was no longer smooth – it was rough with tiny micro textures. If a person could feel the molecules of an object, that's what they would feel like. Sticky and rough and vibrating ever so slightly. His hands seemed to spasm with the sensation.

He hand his hand over the length of the bar. He ended up shearing it in half, diagonally, right down the length. One bit dropped away, quickly followed by the other as he dropped it in shock.

He stood still, hands out, for several minutes, trying to come to grips with what he was seeing. Gingerly, he reached down to pick up a half of the crowbar. The cut end was smooth, virgin metal shone like a new coin. His hands could feel the tiny molecules moving and shaking on it.

Gripping the sheared end, he shakily walked towards the workbench, blunt end held out. The faint vibrations under his skin seemed to transfer to the metal, making them rattle harder, and reposition. Scott gently tapped the vice.

It should have bounced off. Instead it dropped through, easily as air, and left half the vice shining on the workbench. He snatched a hand down to grab the rest, and his fingers cut at sharp angles, leaving a pile of shrapnel on the floor.

Breathing hard, Scott stepped back and stared at his hands and tried to apply some logic to this – unfortunately there didn't seem to be any.

"Scott?" his father called down. "What's all that banging? It won't get fixed with cutting remarks, you know."

Scott was still staring at his hands, and replied without thinking. "You got that right."


"…I know he's in New York, New York is telling me he's in India so….he went back? Hang on, hang on, does he have a number I can call? What? I must speak with him it's about his…speciality. I have…well, research information for him. I need his scientific opinion….yes? Hang on, let me take this down…."


Alan Tracy

Wharton's Academy, Massachusetts

Alan knew he was late. He sped across the cloisters, juggling papers. Mr Grier was a real ass and would chuck a spaz if you were through the door one second late. Alan stretched out his stride, heading for the far building. He had to get there.

Then everything went black.

Alan woke up. Pain and nausea had happened.

He looked around the infirmary of Wharton's. "Wha…"

"Hey, look who's awake," Gordon face was suddenly in his view, causing Alan to start. "Dad's just filling out forms. We're going to take you home for a few days."

"What? Gordon?" Alan tried to clear his head of the nagging, persistent ache. "Why?"

"Are you kidding? You took a header into a wall, kiddo!" Gordon reached out to gently touch one hot, tight eyelid. "You've got one hell of a shiner. You should really look where you're going."

"What? How?" Alan was bewildered. He tried to remember what had happened, but for the life of him he couldn't remember any wall. He'd been running across a very wide, very open, very…well, un-walled courtyard.

"I don't know exactly what happened," Gordon shrugged. "They found you knocked into space. I went to have a look – you actually left a dent. You must have been going full tilt when you hit."

Alan shook his head. "I don't remember."

"I'm not surprised, son," Jeff said, entering quietly. "You rattled your brains but good." Gentle hands ran through Alan's hair. "A nice week of bed rest should set you right."

When Alan first felt the stabbing rays of the sun hit his aching eyes as they headed out to the car, bed rest actually sounded bearable. A tint suddenly dropped over them as Gordon slid his sun glasses onto Alan's face.

"Aren't concussions a bitch?"

Alan glared at him irritably. It was a long walk to the parking lot and he was sure he'd have a barb a minute.

There was a screech ahead in the distance – a car (stolen from the principal) reversed out, cut off another car and screeched towards the exit. Classes were ending and teachers were going home, students with passes were heading into the city. People ducked and dodged. Except one student who had bent down to get some dropped papers. By the time he straightened out, the car was too close dodge. There was a squeal of tyres, but it was too late.

For Alan there was energy, flow, movement and then there was a thump of pain as his body slammed into the other boy's, and then a blur as they slid across the grass past the road. When Alan looked up, he was at the end of a very long, deep furrow ploughed out of the verge.

His body was glowing incandescently and all sense of weight had vanished. But it faded. From far across the street and parking lot, his father and brother were staring at him.

"Hey, what was that?" the other boy who was next to Alan asked incredulously. "What happened?"

"You tell me..." Alan muttered. His head was aching enough without any extra complications.


Jeff Tracy

Tracy Island – South Pacific

Jeff played idly with an old quarter as the phone rang and rang. If this didn't work, he'd go to New York himself and put up Wanted signs.


"Dr. Suresh? Mohinder Suresh?" He turned the coin over and over in his hands.

"Yes? May I ask who this is?"

"My name is Jeff Tracy, Dr Suresh. I...read your father's book and I was…interested in his theories. They tell me you have the same speciality."

"Yes? And?"

Jeff could tell by the cold tone of voice that this wasn't going well. He turned the coin over and over. Each turn changed it. One turn it was as corroded as if it had been in the sea. On the next turn it was fresh and shiny, as if it had just come from the mint. Tarnished. Minted. Tarnished. Minted. If you watched carefully enough, you could just catch the tarnish fading and renewing. "I'll be blunt, Dr Suresh. Something is happening to me…and to my sons. Things your father wrote in his book. Can you help me, or have I just run up my long distance bill for nothing?"


Explanations of Powers – because I know someone will ask

Jeff – weakening and strengthening of solid objects – he breaks down molecular structure and rebuilds it; but only very subtly. He can't destroy something, or change it's makeup

Scott – turning things into a cutting edge – including his hands. I guess this can come under 'molecular repositioning'

John – energy storing and channelling – be it electrical or movement, velocities, impact. He can redirect it onto something else.

Virgil – see through many solid objects for very long distances – and in great detail. He may even be able to 'see' people lying, falling in love or about to kill – it all affects how much energy is running through the body; which he can see.

Gordon – freezing anything liquid – anywhere where water is present, he can do it. Which is very nearly anywhere, including the human body.

Alan – transform into a beam of light – a 'long way' teleportation, because when you're travelling at a respectable chunk of the speed of light, no one can see the intervening travel. He has a little trouble…stopping.