I really have no idea where this came from! The most obvious story for me to write after Earthbreaker was the aftermath of Virgil's crash. But then I started thinking about Gordon and Alan, stuck back on the island, and how they might have reacted to seeing their brother in such danger.

It's a standalone follow up, but can also be read as a prequel to Of Forts And Foes. Either way, I hope you enjoy it!

Cometh The Hour

"Tracy Island, this is Thunderbird Two. I've come under attack. Prep me in for crash landing. Five minutes out."

Those words had been chilling enough. Brought their latest bout of cushion combat to a horror-faced end. Now, watching a blur of green through his field glasses, Gordon had to pinch himself to believe what he was seeing. Because the manoeuvres he'd watched all those countless times before were wrong. Horribly wrong. Because trails of thick black smoke, and flares of unnatural orange, were following her down.

Smoke. Flames.

Gordon felt his blood turn to ice. For the sake of his younger brother, a horrified whisper stopped itself just in time.

"Oh no, she's -"

"- on fire."

The voice beside him sounded odd. For a start, it wasn't his own. And it was so quiet. So small. But it was still enough for him to recognize it as Alan's. His little brother, who was every bit as scared right now as he was. The cushion he'd had all set to whack into its target was now tightly hugged against his chest.

Almost imperceptibly, he'd edged closer to his brother's side. Seeking the comfort that was already wrapping itself round his shoulders. Even with the den's comfortably regulated temperature, Gordon could feel him trembling, as the full scale of this highly personal emergency hit home.

Their big brother was in serious trouble, and even greater danger. From that one, inescapable fact, another big brother now stepped in to take over his role of vital calm. His free hand clicked at his earpiece, connecting him to Virgil's best chance of survival.

"Did you get that, Brains? Virgil's in trouble, we need to prep Two's runway for a code red landing, right now."

That second order was only half way through, before a reassuringly calm voice made the rest of it unnecessary.

"FAB, Gordon. Converting runway to fire retardant, and all extinguishers activated."

Feeling at least some of his worry lift from his shoulders, Gordon then turned to Alan - keeping his voice as calm as it had to be, for the next order he had to give.

"I know Virgil's in real trouble here, Allie, but he's relying on us now to help him get through it. And we've practised this drill enough times to get through it for real... okay?"

Maybe not the barnstorming pep talk they'd have heard from Scott, or Virgil, but - well, it was going to have to do anyway. And from the determination that now fought to return to Alan's face, it had still attained its objective.

By the time they reached Two's hangar, both had let their rescue training take over. Their fire-proof suits were on in record time. And with slightly more experience of it over his brother, Gordon grabbed the medical kit, while Alan monitored the safest way for them to get into her cockpit.

"Side hatch still good."

A pause, before the tiniest smile appeared through the mask of his suit.

"Some pretty nasty smoke in there, but... yeah, Virgil's good too."

Smiling too, if grimly for the coughs and splutters they could hear in their earpieces, Gordon nodded. The exchange that followed made it even grimmer.

"Thunderbird Two on final approach to Tracy Island. I hope this is gonna work, Brains."

"Virgil... hang in there."

"All right. Here goes."

Within those moments, Gordon felt the full weight of his eldest brother's responsibility. Understood the true scale of leading a rescue operation, to the point where Scott would realize there was nothing more he could do to change its consequences. And in Scott's absence, Virgil's survival relied solely on him.

Swallowing hard, Gordon braced himself. Above the roar of Two's engines, all he could do now was stand with his hand poised over the hangar's access to its runway. Stand there with his equally helpless brother, and listen to all Hell breaking loose outside.

In the days to come, he'd recall how he'd felt it more than heard it. How the ground had shaken from that first, terrifying impact. How it had continued to shake while he counted the seconds afterwards, assessing how fast his brother's crippled ship was careering towards them. If she would stop before she ran out of runway.

How he'd felt the unthinkable horror of failure if she didn't, and came crashing through that wall of rock. To get himself and Alan out of her path, before she took their lives too, as such an impact would surely have taken their brother's.

How he'd felt tears of relief, and pride, and gratitude, and - God, more feelings than he could count, when he'd heard Brains answer every one of his prayers.

"Gordon? Alan? He's - He's made it."

Rarely, if ever, had that hatch of rock and concrete lowered so quickly. Rarely, if ever, had he then ran so fast between still gently bouncing palm trees. And if he'd slid and skidded a bit, through the sea of foam which now covered Two's runway - hell, he'd neither noticed nor cared. All he'd cared about was the strained but immeasurably priceless voice that spoke for three, overwhelmingly relieved brothers.

"Thanks, Brains."

'Thanks' indeed, for everything that happened afterwards. Thanks for the surprise, and pride, on Virgil's face as they came crashing through Two's side-hatch. Thanks for how quickly he'd risen from his seat, and how warm and solid he'd felt as they both ran into his arms. Thanks for the way he'd laughed while Doctor Gordon checked him over. For the celebratory barbecue that they held by the pool that night, to honour the hero of the hour. Or, as Scott had proudly insisted, heroes.

For Virgil, of course, the greatest gift he received that day was that he was alive to see it end. And for Gordon? Alan? Yes, there were gifts for them too. Two impeccably wrapped parcels from their brother's next supply run.

For Gordon, it was a new shirt. Typically garish, and typically him. The same yellow as his beloved 'bird, highlighting a wonderland of Hawaiian landscapes. For Alan, the new guitar he'd set his heart on, but which had been snapped up by someone else instead. Another mystery buyer, who'd forever cherish the moment when his real identity was revealed, and crushed disappointment had turned to utter joy.

On each rested a simple card, inscribed with six words in their brother's unmistakeable hand.

"Cometh The Hour. Cometh The Man."