Trend Setter

Movie universe story: Scott learns to accept his unexpectedly striking new hairstyle.

Based on the 2004 movie Thunderbirds, produced by Working Title, which in turn was based on the 1960s Gerry Anderson series of the same name. Written without permission, but with amused respect.

This isn't going to be reaching quite the dramatic crescendos of my first Thunderbirds story, and I'm sorry if that disappoints. One aspect of the Thunderbirds movie that I find difficult to take seriously is the Tracy boys' striking, but perfectly-coiffed, hairstyles. This is a bit of silliness that came to me one night to help explain why, given their busy lives, they take so much time and trouble over their appearances. I don't expect people to take it entirely seriously, but it's set during the run up to International Rescue starting operations.

This story is short enough that I hope it's not too bad un-betaed. Don't worry: I know I need to find a beta for any future longer, or more serious, stories. So feel free to point out any errors in the meantime, or just to sit back and enjoy.

This little thing was written for fun. I'm not that good at humour, but hope it will be fun to read nonetheless. Any feedback at all would be very welcome, even just two words to say if you enjoyed this or hated it.

It was me that started it, although I'll swear to my dying day that it wasn't my fault.

Brains never warned me about the side effect of that particular coating. Well, to be fair, I didn't ask and he probably didn't know. I'm not even sure what it was for - Thunderbird One has so many coats of anti-radar paint, anti-corrosion, anti-friction...whatever, that you could probably take the 'Bird away and be left with a cast-off snakeskin that stands up on its own.

This gloop was just another layer to put on my shiny new toy, another chore to be completed before I could play with her. Brains had been insistent about this one - it had to cover every square millimetre exposed to the outside air. Unfortunately, it was also thicker than most, and the paint rollers weren't picking it up terribly well. On the bulk of the ship that wasn't a problem - I could go over the surface several times to make sure the coat was even and complete. The fins, engines and the air intake valves were more of a challenge.

In the end I gave up on the brushes, and checked the notes Brains had provided. Hmm, skin exposure to the stuff would be fine as long as I washed it thoroughly with something oil-based within three hours. Fair enough. I dug my hand into the canister, pulling out a handful of something with a consistency midway between treacle and cold porridge, and smeared the stuff thoroughly over the intricate vent flaps. I gritted my teeth as my hand went back into the cold goo. Brains had better be right about this being important.

I wiped my hands off on a towel first, and then on my coveralls. I didn't even notice running a hand through my hair in a gesture of frustration. I was only halfway done, and I had no time to finish, not if I was going to get to the Island's more conventional hanger on time to meet Fermat for the grocery run. Sighing, I set the coating aside for another day and headed over to the sink, sorting through the various solvents and lotions there for one that met Brains' requirements. Finding it, I set to work, scrubbing up to my elbows and under my fingernails with a meticulous thoroughness. We'd all learnt not to cut corners with safety.

I glanced back at my Thunderbird as I turned the lights out in the TB1 silo, smiling quietly to myself in anticipation. As I stripped out of my coveralls, it never occurred to me that the one thing the hanger lacked was a mirror.

Fermat's quivering lips suggested he had some overwhelmingly funny joke on his mind. If that was the case then he'd been holding it in since we met up in the hanger. I kept expecting him to tell it, and almost asked, especially when he glanced in my direction and the suppressed giggles started anew. Surely if it was that amusing, he wouldn't want to keep it to himself?

On the other hand, it's been a while since I was a nine-year-old boy, and given that my only recent experience of one was Alan, I wasn't at all sure that encouraging him was a good idea.

The jet was in smooth and steady flight, only a few minutes away from our destination. I nodded in satisfaction as we locked onto the landing field beacon, and lifted one hand from the controls to run back through my hair.

It felt wrong straight away. I hesitated, patting the top of my own head and feeling the hair bounce back under my hand. Fermat doubled up in helpless laughter as I ran my fingers between the strands in rising panic. They parted readily enough, but I could feel them returning to their upright position as my hand moved on.

This wasn't good.

We were two minutes from landing - no time now for a dash to the bathroom mirror. I forced myself to concentrate, but, despite my efforts, the knowledge of it preyed at the back of my mind. I was sitting at the controls of one of the world's fastest civilian jets, with a near-hysterical child in the co-pilot's chair, sporting what felt like the world's biggest quiff.

I taxied to a halt, opening the family hanger with a control on the dashboard so I could stow the plane securely. Even before the jet engines had cycled down to nothing, I was out of the seat and into the small restroom, staring in helpless despair into the mirror. Fermat was still giggling as he followed, standing in the doorway.

"S-s-sorry, Scott," was all he managed to say.

I fixed him with a glare the kid probably didn't deserve, before turning back to the mirror and patting gingerly at my hair. Where I'd run my fingers through it earlier, in the TB1 silo, it had stuck in place, the foremost locks pointing firmly skyward. I tugged open the small closet, raiding the reserve supplies of toiletries there for a comb. It slid through my hair smoothly, meeting no resistance, but like an everlasting candle on a birthday cake, and just as frustrating, my hair kept springing stubbornly back to life.

A knock on the metal skin of the jet forced me to give up. I backed out of the restroom and into the main cabin, realising from the light coming through the windows that I'd forgotten to close the hanger door. That wasn't like me - no wonder the little airfield had sent one of its ground crew over to check on us. I pasted a cocky smile on my face as I disarmed the door chute and then opened the main hatch, letting the ladder unfold from it. I tried to ignore the way the man's eyes flicked to my hair as he stepped up, defying him to comment that it was anything beyond the ordinary.

"Um, is everything in order, Mr Tracy?"

"Fine, Chuck." My brothers and I have been using this small-town airfield long enough to recognise every employee they had, and to trust in their discretion. "Sorry, I was just straightening up the main cabin. I think Fermat decided to have a pillow-fight with the chairs when I wasn't looking."

A hand on his arm stilled Fermat's protest before it began, and the man on the ladder accepted the reason for the delay without question. He gave Tracy Island's youngest occupant a quick smile before looking back at me, tilting his head.

"Smooth flight then? Nothing too hair raising?"

My glare wiped the smile from his face, but one corner of his mouth was quirking upwards nonetheless as he backed down the stairs.

"I'll leave you be then, Mr Tracy." His eyes couldn't resist a last flicker towards the top of my head before he reached the ground and turned to leave. "Good to see you again."

Fermat's eyes were watering, and I realised my grip on his arm was perhaps a little tighter than it should have been. I let him go with a grimaced apology and he stepped back, rubbing his arm. "This isn't my f-f-fault, Scott," he told me unhappily.

"No, kiddo," I agreed with a sigh. "This one I'm blaming entirely on your dad." I led the way back into the cockpit, settling back into the pilot's seat and running quickly through the post-flight checks before starting the hanger door closing. The interior lights came up, illuminating the flatbed pick-up we use for these grocery runs, tucked into its designated corner.

Fermat had followed me in silence, dropping into his own seat with a stubbornly hurt expression.

I managed to dig a smile up from somewhere. "All right, Fermat. It looks like we have a change of plan. I'll drop you off at the store with Mr Sullivan. He's had our list for two days now, so you should only need to help him get the fresh stuff together. I'll be back to help load the pick-up. You're old enough now to check that everything we asked for is there before I get back, aren't you?"

Now Fermat's eyes widened, and his expression brightened at the thought of the heady responsibility. He nodded, and then frowned. "But where will you be, Scott?"

I grimaced, trying to get a glimpse of my reflection in the cockpit windows. "The hairdresser's. And Jean better be able to fit me in."

It seems to be a rule that every decent hairdresser in the States is either Italian or French. It used to confuse me that even here, in the little town of Safe Landings, the parlour was run by a fussy little Frenchman who wouldn't have seemed out of place in the boutiques of Paris or London. Of course, that was before I was really old enough to understand this town.

When Dad found Safe Landings, it was a city incorporated of less than a thousand souls, and those were scattered across farms and prairies spanning half the county. A few fishing boats still remained in the cove that gave the settlement its name; most had long since hung up their nets. It had no medical heli-jet, no fire-fighting plane. The few crop-dusters in the area took off from dust strips on the farms, and prayed that rain didn't turn the ground into a muddy swamp before they needed to land. All in all, there was nothing to distinguish this place from the dozen or so other townships scattered along the coastline nearest Tracy Island.

Dad chose it because he liked the name.

When Dad bought the city its first new emergency equipment in half a century, no one objected to the Tracy Industries-owned airfield that came with it. What few qualms the locals may have felt vanished when Dad flatly refused a landing permit to anyone but Tracy Island-based jets and the residents of the city. It was only later, and on the promise of a substantial charitable subscription to the city each time, that he agreed permits for the occupants of the few outlying private islands scattered along the same archipelago as our home.

Safe Landings had time to adapt. The airfield is still there, but our hanger is matched now by three belonging to billionaire neighbours of ours who value their privacy as we do. The grocery store is still a family owned, all-your-kit-in-one affair, but now it has a secure shed out back quietly stockpiling supplies for the island runs. And instead of a frontier-style barber shop, the townspeople and islanders alike share Jean. When asked, he'll give a short-back-and-sides any small-town barber would be proud of. And when his customer is walking into the public eye, he'll produce a work of art that would shame the style capitals of New York or Milan.

He took one look at me, threw his arms up and screamed.

"Mister Scott!" He came towards me in a flurry of small motions, gesturing me towards the chair and scooping up a wrap to throw around my shoulders. "Who has done this to you! Who has been touching your fine, strong hair? Jean is shocked, shocked that you would go to another!"

I sank gratefully into the barber's chair, letting him fuss around me. I wanted to smile in response to his flustering, but I'd just caught sight of myself in the mirror that covered one entire wall of the room. It was even worse than I had seen in the tiny mirror on the jet. No wonder old Mr Sullivan had given me a look midway between incredulous and disapproving. The hair at the front of my head was still doing its best 'just-seen-a-ghost' impression, while towards the back it had already been edging on the long side before this happened. God help me, I had acquired a punk mullet.

"This was all me," I told Jean as he pulled a comb from his belt, leaning first over one of my shoulders and then the other as he tried to work out where to start. I didn't envy him the task, even as I tried to work out how to explain this to him. Brains had required an oil-based solvent, I remembered. Well, some of Jean's more exotic shampoos probably fitted the bill. On the other hand, that had been for skin, not hair. I gritted my teeth, wondering who would answer if I called the Island for advice. With my father and brothers all in residence, I had at best a one in six chance of getting through to Brains without being asked questions I really didn't want to answer. "I think I got some kind of chemical in my hair - perhaps if we tried washing it out first...?"

Two hours later, Jean had done his best. With him looking over my shoulder into the mirror, we both studied the results sceptically. Nothing had been able to overcome my hair's unnatural abhorrence of gravity. The best he'd been able to do was trim it all around, adding a little shape and style to the overall chaos. My hair was moussed and sprayed to within an inch of its life, and still nothing could stop my forelock from reaching for the skies.

I sighed. Still, at least now it looked as if it might possibly have been planned, rather than as if I'd been standing in Thunderbird One's jet exhaust. I tilted my head from side to side, studying my reflection. Hmm, if I'd been a pop singer or up-and-coming actor, I could even have been making a fashion statement. I squared my shoulders, taking a deep breath and trying to reassure myself. Just maybe this millionaire-playboy-pilot could pull it off after all.

"I'm sorry, Mister Scott," Jean was saying. "Je suis desolé"

I held my hand up to still his apology. "Not your fault, Jean. I hardly gave you a lot to work with."

I stood, pulling the wrap from around my neck and shaking my head slightly in attempt to get used to the new feel of it. I took the touchpad from the cash register before he could even drop a polite hint, adding a substantial tip to the already noticeable bill for his time and supplies. He threw me a worried smile as I headed for the door, and I gave him a bold one in return.

"Wish me luck."

The paparazzo caught me as I stepped out of the salon door. The smile on my face became fixed as the camera detector Brains had designed in the early stages of our project throbbed in my wristwatch. My eyes scanned the surrounding area warily, not wanting my quarry to know I was aware of him. Was that a hint of a lens reflection behind those bushes?

I turned away as if I hadn't a care in the world, flipping my cell phone out and quietly letting the police chief know he had a snooper to deal with. On past experience, I reckoned the photographer had a fifty-fifty chance of getting out of Safe Landings without a few bruises to show for the endeavour, and less than three in ten of having his film intact when he did so. Our friends on the mainland showed short shrift to anyone disturbing the discreet equilibrium that so benefited their town.

Even so, as I apologised to Mr Sullivan and Fermat for keeping them waiting and my ringing cell interrupted, I wasn't surprised to hear that the cameraman had got away.

It had been that kind of day.

Dad met us as we touched down on the Island, sending a tired Fermat to lie down, while keeping his eyes glued about three inches above my eye-line. By that time I barely blinked when the one person I'd most wanted to avoid appointed himself our welcoming committee.

Fermat left with a quick glance back at me, and a nod. I'd had a long talk with the boy on the hour-long flight home, and he knew that if he let slip a word of what had happened, my revenge would be merciless. I left the threat vague, knowing that whatever I could imagine, Fermat would be more creative. I'd smiled to take the edge off the words though, and I'm pretty sure he knew I wasn't serious. Or not more than half serious. Well, not a hundred percent in any case.

If I was stuck with this, then I sure wasn't going to admit how it had happened.

I allowed a cocky smile to cross my face, turning a slow pirouette in front of my father to show my new haircut off. "Like it, Dad?"

His expression was resigned, and he shook his head, turning towards the back of the jet and the cargo holds. "And I thought it was the teenage boys I was supposed to worry about. You do know it makes you look ridiculous, don't you, Scott?"

I pretended horror and outrage at the suggestion, but I don't think Dad was fooled for a minute.

My four brothers were gathered in the common room when we eventually made it upstairs with our burden of mail and packages for the assorted pests. They had their backs to me, their eyes fixed to the screen, and Gordon at least was hooting with laughter. I closed my eyes, counting to ten slowly as Dad slipped past me into the room.

We'd all of us featured on the 'celebrity news', or as Dad likes to call it, the 'venom-spitting, gossip-mongering libel engine' from time to time over the years. Being heirs to one of the biggest fortunes around, not to mention reasonably proficient in our own careers over the years, had ensured that. Even so, I was dismayed to see my own features already plastered across the high-definition screen.

The brave smile I remembered wearing actually looked smug on the photograph of me leaving Jean's salon. Around the edges of the screen, a dozen smaller photographs, apparently of notable quiff-wearers through history, provided a border to my own picture.

"It's a bold move," one of the 'fashion' experts in the studio was saying, "but millionaire ex-Air Force pilot Scott Tracy may well be the one to carry it off. His island home gives him the sun-tan to complement his good looks, and he has the masculine physique to offset a style hitherto considered somewhat effete."

My face had turned a bright crimson, but the merciless gods of humiliation weren't done with me yet. The woman's fellow presenter seemed to agree. "We could see this style becoming a real feature on the social circuit this year as others imitate one of the world's most eligible young bachelors."

That was too much for Alan. He joined Gordon in peals of laughter, sliding off the sofa and putting one hand to his side as if it hurt. Virgil gave him a considering look and then jumped off the sofa on top of him, taking the opportunity to tickle our helpless baby brother.

Even father's lips were quirking as he turned off the screen. "All right, boys. The mail's here."

All four of them turned to face me, and I was met with four identical expressions of incredulous delight. There are times when my brothers seem so different from one another that I wonder how we can share the same parents. And other times when I know that each and every one of us is a Tracy.

John was the first to break the symmetry, his blue eyes glinting with amusement as he schooled his expression to one of curious sympathy. Without him saying a word, I knew that he didn't believe I'd done this on a whim. I gave my brother a confused look as if I didn't know what I was getting at, and he leaned back in his chair with a grin. He'd get the story out of me sooner or later. John may be the quietest of us, but when he sets his mind to something he's as unstoppable as the planets in their courses.

Thank God my younger brothers are less perceptive - at least so far. They clustered around me, clamouring for their parcels and asking about my new haircut in roughly equal measure and with equal volume.

"Boys! Take it outside," Father ordered with a smile.

It was five days before I got a chance to speak to Brains in private about a way to make this style less permanent, and by then, it's strange, but I was getting used to it.

My dad still rolled his eyes when he saw me, but the initial round of open laughter had died away. I avoided the fashion news, but a glance through the papers was enough to tell me that boutiques around the world were now offering the 'Scott Tracy look' as a premium cut. With the first rush of adrenalin-driven humiliation fading, I was actually able to consider my new hairstyle for what it was. And, in a strange way, it was me.

All my life, I'd been in the public eye. I'd been my father's son: neat, polite and presentable. Only my brothers had been allowed to see the fire within…until now. This had been forced upon me, but even so…. Looking in the mirror every morning, I was growing accustomed to the wind-blown glimpse of wild abandon. I was starting to like it.

By the time I admitted the problem to Brains and he provided a reagent that could help, I had already decided to keep the style.

And when my always placid, normally predictable, brother John returned from the next grocery run a peroxide-blond, I realised I'd started something.

Dad complains these days that we look more like a troupe of male models than a rescue team, but he smiles when he says it. In fact Dad's vague disapproval makes it all the sweeter. Our lives are so ordered that the passion and rebellion we put into outdoing each other's hairstyles is like a safety valve, letting off the worse of the steam.

Looking down the line, past John, past Virgil's carefully applied highlights and Gordon's short spikes, my eyes settle on Alan. Last I heard, it was only Dad's vehement refusal of permission that was stopping our underage brother dying his hair blue.

Well, I think as I run my fingers through my hair, it could be worse. With the neutral grey of our uniforms and our helmets to hide us from view, this is one area in which we can really let ourselves go.

And what can I say? I was born a trend setter.

The End