A/N: Hi guys, sorry for the delay in updating this, I had the ideas but John absolutely did not want to play with me, the pain in the tush. To all of you who reviewed the first chapter, thank you all so much. I knew that I wasn't the only one who was cursing the animators for not giving any of the characters proper protection for such a high-risk situation, nor even hinting at any of the repercussions aside from ignorant comments about 'microwaved organs' and 'crispy meatloaf', so I'm looking forward to your responses this time around.

To my anonymous contingent, thank you for reviewing and reading, and I'm sorry that I couldn't reply to you personally, but it wasn't for lack of trying. Gordon's chapter will be next... as soon as I can get around to writing it. I've got so many stories and prompts on the go, it's a matter of who decides to talk and when that depends on when the next thing will be posted/updated. I will get there eventually, but I'm really struggling with my last semester of my degree at the moment, and despite my wishing that fandom comes first every time, sadly my health and my life outside of it, such as it is, trumps my writing far more often than I'd like. I do the best that I can, so you're just going to have to be patient with me, I'm afraid. :)

Anyway, go ahead and have at it, I hope that it meets up to your expectations... Many thanks as usual to LexietFive for a number of written components and for her stupendous betaing, and also to Loopstagirl for helping to prod me onwards in the instance when Lexie was unavailable. You rule Ls!

Disclaimer: I do not own Thunderbirds in any incarnation; only my OCs, the plot, and the instances within which they occur in my stories. All rights and ownership go to the Gerry Anderson Estate, Carlton International, Granada Ventures, Studio Canal/Working Title/Universal and now, ITV, Pukeko and Weta Workshop, respectively. I am only borrowing the Tracys and I promise to return them - mostly unharmed - when I'm finished.

John chews his lip as he ends the call to Virgil, and begins tapping at his varicoloured holographic screens. Using a backdoor route through the systems, he opens a discreet observation link to the Thunderbird One control console. He really can't believe that his only older brother could be so idiotic! Clenching a fist, John suddenly spins around and punches out, swiping one whole screen away in his frustration.

Good grief, Scotty! He fumes silently. What the hell are you bloody thinking these days; do you have a fucking death wish?

He knows his brother doesn't, God knows that Scott is too big and solid and full of life to have any inclination to want to go anywhere, but honestly, if John didn't know his brother the way he does, he'd be sure that Scott is looking to literally kill himself. Scrubbing his face as a growl rips through his throat, John shakes with apprehension as his gaze locks onto the newly-established link, watching the pilot's alert blue eyes scanning the sky beyond Thunderbird One's cockpit, wondering just when his brother is going to begin exhibiting preliminary symptoms of Acute Radiation Sickness. It's damn-well inevitable; there's no way to avoid it. Scott has been exposed skin-meets-air to radon particles: radiation gas that right now could be doing untold damage to his brother's otherwise-healthy body.

John might be wrong, but it seems to him that Scott is blissfully unaware of what he's going to be dealing with in a few short hours. The maximum absorbed level of radiation a body is recommended to be exposed to at any one time in a life-saving operation is 250 milli Sieverts; Scott was faced with almost ten times that, and combined with the man's negligence in donning all of his protective gear, even with the radiation shielding on their uniforms, John knows that there is no doubting that his brother has copped almost a full Sievert's dose of radon radiation.

Scott is a remarkably fit and healthy twenty-seven-year-old man, but as with things like pandemic diseases such as Ebola and the Swine and Avian flus that swept the world earlier in the 21st Century, radiation is indiscriminate in who it targets. Although the level of effect on biologic systems does vary in dosages below that symptomatic 1000 mSV threshold, there is absolutely no chance that Scott has escaped the ramifications of his jaunt. John feels almost nauseous with worry himself as he eyes his brother, and he's the one that's supposed to be calm, cool and collected. Hardly.

Sighing deeply, he turns his gaze to his radar map, watching as Scott's blue-grey marker slowly inches homewards on the logged flight-path - Virgil's green one moving slowly but surely, several inches (or several-hundred miles, and lengthening, if he goes by scale) behind - and John contemplates whether or not he should contact Scott, and actually make sure his brother is going alright... Biting his lip as he uses the pads of his thumb and forefinger to slide the holoscreen slightly to each side in an unconscious movement, John decides against it, knowing that angry as he is with the man right now, that they'll likely get into an argument. He knows that that's the last thing they need, when Scott is more or less a ticking time bomb, especially where stress and sudden collapses are concerned.

John had been far from joking when he told Virgil just now he's going to make sure that Scott doesn't take a nosedive into the Atlantic Ocean. It could actually be that sudden, and he needs to make sure his focus is on the remote relay for Thunderbird One, so he can take control should the worst happen, and Scott collapses at the wheel.

Technically, considering his eldest brother and the to-soon-be-expected illness he will be suffering from, the pilot shouldn't even be flying home, but they've had to circumvent that rule, regretfully, because they just cannot afford to ditch 'One anywhere, not with the Hood loose and bent on claiming the 'Birds for himself. With only two of them off-Base right now, and two craft to pilot, it's unavoidable, because yes, though John is willing and prepared in the case of such an emergency to take control of his brother's 'Bird, he's just not that confident in his abilities from all the way up here unless he can't avoid it, especially with the rather precious cargo Scott would therefore become. And, John thinks ruefully, if the task of flying keeps his sibling occupied, and prevents him from cocking anything else up and endangering himself further, then that is a good thing indeed.

Sighing deeply, John turns his gaze from his oblivious brother to the minimised marker that had been keeping him apprised of the radiation levels at the Van Arkel mine, and is relieved to see that there is now almost no sign at all that there was any trouble in the first place. Despite his concern for Scott, he feels a small grin of triumph trace its way across his face. That makes one less thing to worry about, at least. Tapping on the map and making the reading and the small icon flash with a final pulse, before blinking out, John discards the holoscreen and rubs his face, before biting his lip and tentatively bringing up a new search screen. As the keypad pops up, he transfers it to merge side by side with Scott's screen, so he can keep an eye on his brother's activities and an ear on the usual Thunderbird Five transmission spectrum while he researches.

John is under no illusions as to the ramifications of Scott's actions today; their family is all too aware of the effects of radiation on the human body, but nothing quite to the level the eldest brother has been exposed to. Even with the radiation protection on their IR uniforms - designed to withstand the intense cosmic radiation of space for bursts of approximately thirty minutes at a time, and that's being optimistic - the fact that Scott hadn't been wearing his protective gloves had decreased a fair measure of the suit's effectiveness. John is thankful at least that his brother had been wearing his helmet and had his oxygen feed, so at least there was no chance that Scott was going to be affected by internal irradiation of his organs. That doesn't mean that he isn't at definite risk for significant illness, far from it.

The same is going to be true for that Van Arkel woman, Marion, John admits tiredly. Virgil had only just taken off from the site before John had called him back again, telling him not only to keep an eye on Scott, but that he was calling Colonel Casey and getting her people to pick Marion up with medical personnel in tow. He had known that they could not in good conscience allow Scott to fly home unaccompanied, or let the woman walk away from such a high dose of potentially dangerous radiation, especially as she'd gone one better than Scott and had not been wearing any gloves at all.

At least now Marion was in good hands. John hadn't told Casey the whole story behind the woman's exploits; in his estimation, the situation with the mine had been resolved without affecting anyone or anything in the immediate vicinity, aside from the two exposed soon-to-be invalids. Also, from what he'd heard from the conversation Scott had had with her after Virgil had sealed the control room itself, she had seemed honestly regretful for what she had done, both in opening the mine in the first place, and entering into the ill-considered agreement with The Hood. At least now she has a place in the world suited to her rather unique skill set, and will be working to a strictly-enforced supervision system under the Colonel's purview; after her medical observation and subsequent recovery anyway...

Sighing, John reluctantly enters the NASA medical archive that he has constant access to as a former astronaut with the WSS, as well as a former student of his alma mater, Harvard University. He knows the basics of radiation poisoning from the readings he had to do to prepare for his spacework, and as a first responder for IR, among other, personal reasons, but unlike the controlled environments that are associated with space and the atmosphere, the radiation spike from the mine was both abrupt and high enough that it could very well pose serious, long-term problems to Scott's body if it is not treated adequately from the outset.

There is a chiming of the console beside him just as he is typing in the level of radon gas that his brother has endured, as well as the approximate level of shielding degradation and length of exposure, and Brains' hologram pops up with a chirp, moving to the top right of John's two current screens. The engineer's face is tight with tension, but his eyes are clear and his voice steady as he initiates Virgil's comms as well, and launches into a spiel. Both brothers silently turn and listen attentively, because as much as the four eldest siblings are all first-responders, and all more than proficient in lots of things to do with science and mathematics, Brains with his medical degrees - having trained twenty-three-year-old Virgil into getting his field-medic's license and well on the road to becoming a proper physician - he's much more knowledgeable on things like this.

"So, t-the first thing that we need to do when Scott returns is to get him into the silo d-de-contamination chamber," Brains says, pushing his spectacles up his nose. "He needs to get his g-gear off, and he needs to have a treated shower to irrigate his skin of any seepage that may have come through the suit. Virgil," Brains turns to Virgil's hologram, the younger pilot frowning slightly in consternation, nodding as his fellow engineer speaks. "I will need you to stand by with me outside the chamber, just in case we need to get in to Scott in a hurry, as I said e-earlier, due to the compromised potential of his s-suit, we need to be prepared for the fact that he may collapse at any t-time."

"FAB, Brains." Virgil's deep voice confirms, his eyes dark with worry. "His route right now is still steady, though he's certainly not saying anything to me on how he's faring. What worries me is that he's going to have trouble with his hands, they were the things exposed more than anything else Brains, we know that that sort of irradiation will cause damage to the skin, I'm worried that's the symptom that'll be the first to kick in, and he needs to be able to land first before we can even try to get him into the chamber. I'm too far behind to be of assistance myself; he's still going to arrive before me by at least half an hour."

"I've already taken precautions for that." John flicks the info screen closed and looks his brother and friend squarely in the eyes, seeing his own fears and concern etched into their tense countenances. "I've accessed Thunderbird One's consoles and control system, and at one tap of my finger if needed, 'One will be under my control. I hope it doesn't come to that, but we have to consider it possibly will."

Virgil's face tightens at that, and though none of them will admit it, all three can hear the slight tremble of fright that shivers through his voice as he speaks. "I don't think any of us have tried to land them in the hangars with the remote interfaces alone, John." He says lowly, gripping the back of his hair in an unconscious moment of tension. "I mean, sure, we can do a lot with those controllers, but there's a hell of a lot of variables that are gonna affect it, even on the chance that Scott is able to land her himself." The younger man's eyes flicker to Brain's hologram, and John bites his own lip, knowing that the next forty-five minutes will be crucial. "Is that even possible?"

The engineer straightens his spectacles, surveying both of them with anxious eyes. John quickly makes a check on Scott, but so far all appears to be fine; the view from his hidden observation point is entirely unchanged, but that doesn't do anything to lessen the astronaut's current level of worry. John's gaze moves back to their resident scientist, and he sucks in a deep breath, trying to ignore the tension thrumming through his limbs.

"It is theoretically p-possible, Virgil." Brains confirms, "But I was not ever anticipating having to t-try it out, especially with Th-Thunderbird One. The Thunderbirds were never intended to be flown entirely without a p-pilot, let alone l-landed, but as we know, these circumstances are h-highly unusual..." The engineer shakes his head, the end of the pen he is holding in his hand coming to clamp between his teeth for a moment, before reversing to tap between his fingers; a muted, staccato drumming. "I am confident that it can be done, but I estimate that the level of risk involved in order to do it from T-thunderbird Five is just as high as it would be with Scott doing it in his current, p-precarious state. More so, even," he concludes grimly, "Especially as there is so much at stake if anything is to go w-wrong."

It might very well be the stress of the situation, because John has never done well with managing to keep his amusement under his hat when it's only brotherly pride involved, but despite the dangerous ramifications of him having to land Thunderbird One 22,000 miles away from the cockpit, he still finds himself cracking a slight smile at the tone his friend uses as the scientist states the obvious.

"Jeez, Brains," John finds himself saying, even though his voice cracks at the lump in his throat. Doesn't hurt to lighten the mood after all... "You make it sound like I have no piloting skills whatsoever. I might float here in micro-Grav all day, but I can fly and land a plane if it's needed. Oh ye of little faith!" He grins weakly, already half-regretting the words as soon as they register in his ears. Oh well done John Tracy! He curses.

Brains of course, bless him, reddens and begins to stutter out an apology, he is always as awkward as John in this sort of situation. The astronaut fights back a rueful smile as Virgil rolls his eyes, but then it sort of sinks into a grimace as they're brought back to the very real threat that they're currently being faced with regards to their Field Commander's imminent decline in health.

"Is everything ready for Scott otherwise, Brains?" John enquires softly, brushing a gloved hand through his hair. "I assume that Grandma and the boys know about what's going to happen?" A low chirrup sounds from the bug-earpiece in his left ear as he speaks, and he holds up one hand to forestall the engineer's answer as he uses the other to hone in on his older brother's basic bio-signs, as picked up through their suits' hyperchips. Using two fingers of his copper-tipped gloves to expand the bleeping tracker, as he separates Thunderbird One's status icon from Scott's personal one, John frowns deeply as he runs his fingers down the readings, brow creasing in concern.

The biosensors - nestled within their IR flight-suits at the the four main human pulse points; femoral, radial, jugular and inside the elbow - are accompanied by exterior thermo-readings, atmospheric analysis and GPS locator, among other functions, all information centering in the audio-visual communication device that each of them have permanently situated on their wrists. John doesn't like what he sees. Concerningly, Scott's temperature is already up 1.6 of a degree, and appears to be steadily rising, a large enough spike from where he ordinarily would be, that the system finds fault. Ah, shit. John curses. It's beginning.

Immediately, he initiates the call to his older brother, knowing that even though it's likely going to result in an argument between the two of them, John needs to determine his brother's symptoms; whether he has a headache yet, if he's lightheaded, or if he's got double vision or anything that could potentially, abruptly spark into an emergency situation. Scott's eyes narrow as he answers the hail, clearly irritable, his brows furrowed into an uncharacteristic scowl.

"What, John?" He asks grumpily, and John raises an eyebrow as Brains and Virgil's holograms float comfortably next to him, out of Scott's line of sight. "Trying to fly here; you only contacted me fifteen minutes ago."

John knows immediately that the guy is feeling out of sorts - his temperature enough will be making him feel off - and yes, he did say that to himself before, but he does like to think that he has some ability to gauge the Field Commander's responses and emotions on his own - they are the eldest brothers of the five, after all.

"Radiation exposure, remember, Scott?" He retorts mildly, biting his lip as he steadfastly attempts to fight down his own irritation. Scott's eyes flash to and away from John's own as he fiddles with his controls, the pilot's jaw tightening and ears flushing in a way that John knows that his brother's emotions are soaring. "Your temperature's spiked 1.7 degrees, and it's rising further as we sit. Not to heckle you or anything, but I need you to tell me how you feel right now, Big Brother, you were exposed to rather a large plume back there, and you need to have an eye kept on you. Stop arguing and report."

"You're hardly sitting, Johnny." Scott grouses, but then he gusts out a sigh and seems to deflate slightly, accepting defeat. John watches him sink in on himself, and as Scott raises his eyes to meet his, he can see inklings of the knowledge of exactly how things are going to get so fucked up in a frighteningly short amount of time. John's gut literally sinks. "My head's kind of sore," Scott admits, his lips thinning, "And my hands are beginning to get irritated..." He trails off, and John has a rather irrational urge to wring Scott's neck. It's like he's being deliberately obtuse! He can't help but wonder whether his brother is feeling worse than he's letting on. Scott is an extremely intelligent man, and there's red flags going up everywhere for his brother and Brains. John can tell. He can see it in their eyes. The fact that Scott's blowing them off is a clear indication that something is very wrong.

Fighting the fear down as best he can, John raises an eyebrow, trying to maintain his facade of impassivity. "Sit, levitate, does it really matter, Scott? Stop shirking the fact… you were exposed and now you're paying the price, and believe me you, it's only going to get worse! When were you planning to admit it, Big Brother? When you crashed?" The word hangs heavy in the air, but John stumbles on. "How do you think we would feel picking up the pieces of you from either ocean or terrain? After… Dad, after everything else? You're too damn stubborn for your own good." He sucks in a breath and regains control of his temper, even as Scott's face tightens, pale and shadowed with his own anger. "Anyway, we can discuss this later when you're home and decontaminated. You need to hand over control of 'One. Now."

"Nobody flies 'One but me," John can't help but grit his teeth as Scott instantly straightens in the pilot's seat, blue eyes sparking angrily at him as he loses his temper. Obviously the Field Commander doesn't realise just how much he's shaking right now… John swallows hard.

"Scott, talk sense! Think logically… if you can. If this were me, or Virg or the kids, you'd be first to order us to relinquish control and you know it! Why is it so hard for you to take orders instead of give them? Besides," John says decisively. "I don't need your consent, Scott. 'Five can take control of 'One anytime she likes, and you know it. So right now, yep, that's what I'm doing; doing it by force. I tried being polite and seeing if you'd get your head out of your ass and pass it over yourself, but nope, course not, heaven forbid you use your common sense, Scott!" John punches down on the holoscreen, activating the remote link-up and transferring control of 'One's autopilot to the station. "Sit back, shut up and try to last the ride out, Big Brother; you're powerless to override it. John out!"

John cuts the connection, letting out a groan as he realises that he let his own emotions get the best of him, despite his best intentions. Goddammit. There's a moment of ringing silence in the air, broken only by the chirp of 'Five's systems, before Virgil lets out a low whistle between his teeth and Brains clears his throat nervously.

"Well," Virgil says matter-of-factly. "That takes care of that."

John flicks a glance at his younger brother and friend as he focuses on flying the reconnaissance 'Bird, imagining Scott's displeasure as his 'Bird is forcibly taken from him, refusing to look at his brother right now, even though the silent link is still live. Virgil's face is resigned and John swallows dryly as he shakes his head. "I don't like this," He murmurs softly, hating the crack in his voice. "He's not with it, at all. His head must be bad if he's not realised, Virg. This isn't good." John turns his gaze to Brains, who is fiddling with something on the unseen table in front of him, and he suddenly makes up his mind. "I'll get Scott landed and down in the silo, and then I'm coming down."

Brains' head jerks up in surprise, and Virgil, flicking switches and keeping an eye on flying his own 'Bird, raises his eyebrows silently in enquiry. Yeah, John was kind of asking for that; his general refusal to come down with anything but his own volition is legendary, but this is important; more so than his body's reactions to the reintroduction of full gravity and his own preferences of being up in space rather than on Earth. This is even more important than IR itself. This is his brother they're talking about, for heaven's sakes!

"We can't ask the kids and Grandma to handle this on their own." John replies tightly. "We all know Scott's too stubborn for his own good, and when he's sick, he's even worse, and he'll try pulling rank. Kayo and Gords can stand by to get him into the chamber while you're busy prepping the infirmary, Brains, and then maybe by the time you land Virg, we'll be able to get him into the infirmary with no mishaps." Tag team, him in essence, John thinks ruefully, which Scott isn't going to like, but it's needed. "I'll start the preparations I need to come down. Might not be much good at first, you know me, but I can take over later on so you guys can get some rest."

Both of the other men nod tiredly in agreement, and with barely a word, their holograms click out as John puts his full attention into piloting 'One, a single - yes, nervous, it's understandable - eye still on the concealed video link that still connects the flagship and least-known of International Rescue's fleet. What he sees makes John's heart ache. Uncharacteristically for his elder brother, Scott is slumped back in his seat, his shoulders tense and his hands rubbing his face wearily, and John feels a pang of worry that he can't seem to squash down into professionalism right now, no matter how much he tries.

The... rest of them know only too well what's going to happen - from theory if not full experience - and it's going to be all hands on deck when the shit does finally hit the fan.

It's going to be a long few days...