AN: So it's been a LONG time since I last published anything but I have been inspired by the fantastic TAG (2015) and the bunnies just will not keep silent.

Usual disclaimer: far greater minds created and own the source material. I will forever be grateful to their genius.

Rated for language and visceral descriptions of wounds/surgical procedures.

Thunderbird craft are loud. Take-off alone pushes 150 decibels, the explosive force of the ramjets cracking the air around them, rumbling through the volcanic rock and sending vibrations throughout the entire structure of the island base. Compensations in the design of the hangers and housing complex allowed for such, dampening the effects of the sounds and the forces generated, but still it was one hell of a racket.

Inside the ships themselves, the noise is more tolerable for the occupants within and even at supersonic speeds, the sound of the boom carpet rolling out behind the craft cannot be heard. But advances in technology had never been able to counteract the noise of the wind against the outer hull or the hum of a myriad of moving parts. For the untrained ear this would still be a considerable noise and spoken voices would be raised in compensation in order to be heard.

For the pilots of the Thunderbirds, the background noises of their craft in flight could be the comforting sounds of familiarity, of home and family. But not today. Today the sound was a hinderance, an added complication to an already stressful situation. In the compact medical bay deep within Thunderbird 2 it seemed suddenly far too noisy and Scott was struggling to hear the shallow breaths of his unbearably quiet brother

Turbulence shuddered through the craft and had Scott quickly grabbing the edge of the narrow bed. Speed was of the absolute essence now but Thunderbird Two had to navigate the approaching storm and reach her highest altitude, well above the land mass of North America, before she could really open up. The climb was bumpy and it was making Scott's job all the more difficult.

The ascent finally smoothed out a little and he could feel the craft banking gently. His balance regained, Scott resumed his secondary survey. Airway, he reminded himself, trying to see past the pallor of the face below him, the slight violet tinge to the lips. Focus. Try to forget that it's your brother and focus. Easier said than done.

Having already unzipped Virgil's uniform and sliced open the cotton undershirt, Scott now parted the material to again place a stethoscope bulb against his brother's chest. He closed his eyes as he tried to concentrate and listen. There was obvious bruising to the right side of Virgil's chest and he could feel the give and crackle of at least two broken ribs but the lung sounds were even and clear. Hanging the stethoscope back around his neck, Scott checked the readouts on the monitor and increased the flow of oxygen that fed the rebreather mask.

Gently adjusting the angle of Virgil's head and lifting his brother's jaw, Scott watched the oxygen saturation percentage rise and took a deep breath of his own. "There you go." He sighed, watching the color of his brother's unresponsive face improving a little "It's been a while since I intubated someone. Please don't make me do that today."

Scott's voice was quiet, lost in the rumbling around him and went unanswered by his still patient. Adjusting the cervical collar to keep his brother's head stable, Scott stepped away and quickly grabbed another bag of fluid to replace the empty one that had drained into the IV line he had sited. He glanced at the cardiac monitor and made a mental note of just how much volume it was requiring to keep his brother's blood pressure stable.

Scott swiped his arm across his face to clear away the beads of sweat and groaned in annoyance as he unzipped his own uniform and tugged the collar apart. His face was tight with worry as he grabbed a pen torch and examined his brother's eyes, gently lifting one eyelid and then the other. Good. No obvious head trauma.

A brief glance at the discarded helmet on the floor in the corner of the room and he had to be sure; the outer shell was dented and the visor cracked. Scott ran his fingers through his brother's dark hair and traced back along the contours of his skull to check for any imperfections or traces of blood.

"I guess it's shock that has you sleeping, huh?"

There was still no response. But then the mess of torn uniform and bloodied flesh at the other end of his brother's body had Scott almost glad for the apparent oblivion his brother was in.

It had been too dangerous at the accident site to assess Virgil before moving him and so the decision had been made to literally scoop and run. As soon as it was safe to stop they had hastily cut away his equipment sash and harness and strapped his limp body to a spinal board. Scott now worked around the straps as he continued his survey and he shook his head in dismay as he assessed his brother's injuries.

Scott pulled off the kevlar protection and let his hands glide over Virgil's uniform, looking for tears in the material and feeling for any imperfections in the muscles and bones beneath. There was a deep laceration to his right upper arm but it had already clotted over and Scott thought it best to leave it alone. He tucked the arm back down, careful to avoid snagging the IV line hastily taped to the back of his brother's hand.

The rest of Virgil's upper body seemed unharmed, though Scott could imagine the bruising that must be developing beneath the uniform. He swallowed back the bile that gathered in his throat; they had seen how Virgil had fallen - or, more importantly, how he had landed. Silently praying that there was no internal bleeding, Scott finally turned his focus to the damage that was very clearly visible; Virgil's left leg was a mess.

The rock slide that had pulled the ground from under Virgil and dropped him nearly thirty-five feet had been traumatic enough but the jagged granite that fell with him had torn through the thick neoprene uniform and gouged into the flesh beneath. Scott could recall his brother's initial cries of pain and shuddered at the memory as he then checked the pressure dressings that had been hastily wrapped around Virgil's thigh.

There had to be a fracture or dislocation somewhere under it all. Virgil's solid boots had taken the brunt of the force around his shins and ankles but his left leg was twisted at an odd angle, cradled in the makeshift splint of rolled up blankets. Walking round to the touchscreen interface embedded in the wall on the other side of the bed, Scott entered the commands for the scans he required and stood back.

The small robotic arm unfurled from the ceiling and reached out to hover over Virgil's head. The imaging cameras whirred into focus and then moved down along his body, tracing a 3D representation onto the monitor beside the bed.

Scott peered close at the screen and watched as the image was formed. The blacks and grays painted as near a perfect an anatomical picture as could be created without the use of a full CT scanner and Scott began to see what he had been praying he would not; ominous dark pools where blood was gathering deep inside his brother's abdomen and the three displaced pieces of his left femur.

Stunned by the sickening truth of the scan, Scott froze. It was a long moment before he managed to catch his breath and when he did it was interrupted by s small alarm beside him. Looking over to the bright green display that outlined Virgil's vitals, he saw the increased heart rate and the lower blood pressure reading.

In an instant Scott was simultaneously planning what next needed to be done and in what order, grabbing more supplies from the drawers, and trying not to be sick. He opened the medicine cabinet and searched out a vial of morphine; if his brother did wake up soon, Scott wanted to be sure he had some serious pain relief on board.

It was at that moment that Gordon rushed into the medical bay, his boots skidding on the smooth floor as he halted a short way from the bed. He quickly took in the unresponsive patient and then turned to Scott. "Autopilot. ETA 47 mins." He offered breathlessly. "What can I do?"

Scott hooked a thumb behind him, his voice tight in his throat as he replied. "Grab another liter of Ringer's."

Scott sliced scissors up through the sleeve of Virgil's uniform and examined the inside of his elbow, looking for a deep large vein. He was aware of Gordon moving beside him, hanging the fluid and piercing the bag to prime the line. Sliding the cannula into place, he then took the strips of tape Gordon passed to him and secured the line.

Virgil hated needles. Always had. It was a source of amusement amid his brothers that the tough looking Virgil, physically the biggest of all of them, would practically collapse in a trembling heap if there was any mention of booster vaccinations or tetanus shots. Scott stepped back a little to allow Gordon room to attach the fluids and could see sense in him the shared concern that their brother had again not flinched through the procedure.

Gordon flicked the line open wide and stepped back. "Next?"

Scott could well understand what his brother was attempting to do; stay busy, focus on tasks, be practical. Don't let yourself think about the awful truth that is the broken, unresponsive Virgil.

Grabbing a vacuum splint from one of the taller cupboards, Scott pointed to Virgil's leg. "We need to better secure this." They could not afford the chance that any of the sharp pieces of bone might catch another blood vessel.

In silence they worked together, carefully pulling off Virgil's heavy boot and sliding the splint up under his leg. Securing the straps, Scott then pressed open the valve and air hissed through the narrow chambers, hugging Virgil's leg in a firm embrace.

"Is it as bad as it looks, Scott?"

By way of a reply, Scott nodded towards the images from the scanner. He heard the groan of dismay as Gordon studied the picture. Pulling off Virgil's sock, Scott saw the mottled skin of his foot and held his breath as he concentrated on his search for a pulse. It was weak but it was there and Scott closed his eyes.

"Scott, I don't think we have the facilities for this."

Scott stood up straight. "I know." He leaned back against the cabinets behind him, his resolve starting to slip. Combing a hand through his hair, aware of Gordon watching him and unable to look up into his brother's face, Scott took a deep breath and tapped at the comm. in his sash. "Thunderbird Two to Thunderbird Five."

"Go ahead, Scott." Came the immediate response, "Are you guys okay?"

Scott could not help but smile. Understanding and support. That was John. And Scott could feel his legs weakening a little.

"Not really, no." Gordon offered quietly.

Scott now chanced looking up and watched the emotion that crossed Gordon's face, feeling his own tears gathering. Keep it together. Just a bit longer.

In the initial minutes after the accident the pair of them had worked in a quiet harmony, years of training and experience switching them both into efficient sync with each other. And without discussion Two's co-pilot had then hurried to the helm and steered them for home, as high and as fast as he could. Scott had been ready to support his younger brother but had been glad, in a selfish kind of way, that he had not needed to. Now he could hear an understandable waiver in Gordon's voice.

"I've been monitoring Virgil's vitals. He seems to be stable again. You're doing a great job, guys."

After the initial call to report the accident, comm. traffic had been all but silenced. John knew the two of them were busy and needed to concentrate. But cameras in the flight deck and the medical bay would have no doubt allowed him access to keep an eye on them.

"Have you seen the scan results, John?"

"Yeah. That fracture looks complicated."

As calm and to the point as ever. Scott wondered whether that would perhaps be the same if John was right here with them. With the broken pieces of Virgil's suit heaped in the corner, his ominous silence and the smell of blood soaked dressings. Everything that he and Gordon were trying not to think about.

Scott's hands were dragging through his hair again and he let his fists rest at the back of his neck, feeling the tightness in his shoulders. "Where's the nearest trauma centre?"

Nearest. Safest. Most easily guarded.

"Tripler." John's reply was fast. Evidently he had already made this decision.

"Hawaii?" Scott confirmed, "Isn't there somewhere closer?"

"It's a clear path from your current location. And it's relatively isolated."

Gordon shook his head, "What about the military presence there?"

"Way ahead of you." John stated. Of course he was.

"I guess we'll worry about all that once Virgil is safe, Gordon." Scott shrugged, hanging his head and offering another silent prayer to whichever gods might be listening.

"I'll alert them to your arrival and Virgil's status."

"FAB." Gordon muttered, turning away to head back through to the flight deck.

Aware of the immense craft again banking and gaining speed, Scott moved back to the medical couch and leaned against the side. Steadying his footing and closing his eyes for a moment, he allowed himself a loud sigh and rolled his head to try and ease the pain from the tension in his neck. The quiet nagging of 'God, Dad, what would you do?' swirling in the back of his mind.

Tbc ...