this is something i played around with for a while. it originally started as something very different, but turned into this quite melanchony look into the future. this isn't connected to theother stories i've written or am in the process of writing, it'sjust a wee aside really.i'm afraid it has character deaths (plural i know, sorry!) but they aren't evil ones, i promise.

Auld Lang's Syne

The last echoes of the song fade into the distance and I can see him sitting in front of the television, tear-stained face, the dying embers of a cigar perched between twig-like fingers. His eyes are fixed on the screen, but I know he isn't seeing the pictures before him. I don't know how long I have been looking at him. Time has no meaning now. It is only when I hear the sound of the front door opening and a cheerful whistle, a sick juxtaposition beside the tragedy before my own eyes, that suddenly everything begins to move again, sounds within the room gain in volume. I turn to face my brother, who sags under a crate of Budweiser, a last minute buy for the reunion supposed to be taking place the next day. He knows within an instant that it has happened. Too early, too fast. The incomprehension across his face humbles me. He stumbles towards the kitchen, placing the crate on the worktop, before ripping it open and slowly stacking the bottles into the fridge. I watch him silently, he expects me to yell, but I know he doesn't know what else to do. He has only put away a few bottles before he looks up at me, his brown eyes watering, his chin trembling and I move to him, as I always do and hold him.

Here's to you…

This cigarette tastes amazing. Standing in the peaceful tranquillity of the beach, I watch the smoke drift upwards into blackness, a blackness that is somehow soothing to me. This is my last one. The last rescue…it was a tough one for me, but a great success if you want to look at the big picture. There was a leak in a state of the art nuclear reactor which had the capacity to power the entire west coast of America with no pollutants, no emissions, no adverse effect on the planet…However, when it was pushed to its maximum potential, it failed and the pressures inside caused the lead outer casing, that was supposed to prevent any nuclear leak, was fractured. Of course, Scott, Gordon, John and I got in there straight away; we had specialist equipment and Brains at the end of the radio explaining the complex workings of the reactor and how to shut it down. We saved the day. Everyone was ok…well, almost everyone. I got back to Thunderbird 2 and John was behind me. He placed his hand on my shoulder, stopping me. There's a rip in the suit…right by the back of your neck… His voice held the same disbelief that I could see in Gordon's face and that I felt as I took in John's sombre expression. I tore it from me, turning it over in my hands before I found the tear, it was only a few centimetres long, and was almost indistinguishable, but I knew the dangers of this tiny flaw. I'd been exposed to whatever nuclear stuff had been leaking. I'd been in the plant for almost an hour and a half…The blood tests confirmed my fears, my nausea, skin rashes, told me I'd suffered some kind of chemical poisoning. I'd recover in time, but in the long term, I was never going to be the same. And the worst, I was far more susceptible to any form of cancer. My cigarettes in my pocket felt like a lead weight pulling me down. So that's why I stand outside smoking for the last time. I don't want to be taken from this life like my dad. He was seventy. Since he was twenty, he'd never gone a day without a smoke. I can't forget the pain on Scott's face when I'd returned home to find the bells chiming on the television, people yelling and cheering and my father, cold and alone on the sofa…he'd still been holding a cigar…smoking 'til the end. I know, despite the certainty of it killing me, I'm going to find it tough to quit. I guess it's something I've always done since I was at university. I did it watching over rescues, I did it hiding in my bedroom, I did it after sleeping with a girl, I did it while drinking a beer and watching the game…it's been part of my everyday life for so long. But it can't be. So Dad, this last cigarette is for you…and please let me be able to do what you never did.

Bachelor-ism

The world seemed to change rapidly after my father died. We entered a time where International Rescue was slowly becoming redundant. Our rescue equipment wasn't as state of the art as before, our technology which was so advanced only a decade before, was readily being used within the state rescue services…not that I'm bitter. In a way, I suppose I was almost relieved. We were all getting older; there were kids, families, ambitions that were beginning to become more important in our lives. I won't say we were delighted to shut down International Rescue, but it was the right thing to do. I went back to the Air Force, Gordon started coaching swimming teams, John worked in NASA, Alan and Tin Tin went to New York, where she started college and Alan returned to the race track and Virgil spent time with various rescue services around the west coast of America, aiding them with designs and implications of new equipment. So career wise, we were all sorted. But there's more to life than that, and I guess maybe I'm missing out. I never married…the joke was no woman could ever tame me, but I suppose I'm just not the settling down type. Not the like others. John with his Russian space woman, Gordon with some sweet Californian girl, the inevitable Alan and Tin Tin. Me and Virgil, we just didn't fit into relationships. We've had our fair share of nearlies, but they've just not been right. But we've enjoyed our bachelor life I think. I say enjoyed…we still do. Sure, we're both in out fifties now, but I like to think we look kind of distinguished. We're loaded, I guess that's a sure way of getting some attention from preppy girls, but let this man dream a little. Recently, Virgil's not been up for it…most of the time, it's just me and a few guys from the Air Force out on the town. Virgil moved to some backwoods place in the Appalachian Mountains. He seems content there, playing music and painting, trying to live a healthy life. He's paranoid about the consequences of the chemical poisoning…but he's a fighter. I know this won't be what gets him…Virgil wouldn't go down like that. I've tried to explain, to sound optimistic, but we always end up fighting. After all it's not me who's got to deal with this…don't I know it, but I just want to help him. Maybe that's why he hides himself away, in some remote place? He doesn't need me and my help like he used to. But, and you gotta understand, this is hard to say…I need him…I need him to look out for, to comfort when he's upset, to listen when he's got something on his mind…I need him.

What are brother's for…

I've never needed him like I did that day. The doctor sat across from me, stony-face, washed out blue eyes that were fixed on the sheet in front of him. Terminal. That word again, but not for my father…for me. Well, I can't say I'm surprised…I guess had I been younger, I might have been, but this day has been coming for a long time now. When I was younger I believed I was invincible. There's nothing like putting your life on the line as part of your everyday job to help coin that fantasy. Nothing could stop me…but now, something has. Medicine has improved hugely over the years since my dad passed, but there is still no cure for this menace...this disease that tore through him and is now consuming me. How long? I hear myself ask this question, but I have no desire to know…I don't want some kind of limit placed on my life, a countdown to my own doomsday. About a year…maybe two if you accept treatment? Treatment…I wouldn't touch the stuff. Not for a year. Suddenly I'm aware of the weight I feel in my chest, the veins on my hand rising above the coarse dry skin, the ache in my back caused by years of scrambling into inaccessible places and realise that I am old, I have lived...I could have had longer, but at least I don't regret anything…much. You will take the treatment Mr. Tracy? I shake my head, my hands beginning to tremble involuntary. I explain…my dad, his massive deterioration in health, my personal satisfaction with my life and what I could do in the next year…I know the doctor wants to protest, but he can't change my mind. I return to my house, admire the view across the valley, look at the way the fading sunlight highlights the river, think about how I could never capture that stillness, that serenity on canvas. While my life slowly spirals away from me, I cling to this image, this peace I found. I know in my last hours, it will be the scene I picture. I move towards the phone, unconsciously lifting the receiver and dialling a well-learned number. He answers within one ring and all I need to do is speak his name and I know he will come. He won't let me go on my own.

Goodbye to all that

It is near. We can sense it in the room. He is quiet, almost serene as he gazes across the view from his window. It is beautiful, so calm, so still and I understand his want for this view more than anything at this time. We are alone…he wanted it that way, I had no objections. He turns to smile weakly at me, his face gaunt and wrinkled, his body frail, fragile, his brown hair, faded to a dull grey and thinning at the front. Only his eyes remain that warm, deep brown. The cancer was mercifulness in its destruction, this moment had come sooner than anyone had expected. Maybe it was for the best…he was so ill... His hand shifts in mine and he looks as though he's about to say something, but stops, looking down at the sheets. What is there to be said? He's sorry, but what for…he loves me…Are you okay? The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. He glances at me, sad amusement on his face. Yeah, absolutely fantastic. We both manage a laugh before he takes a sharp breath and coughs slightly. His voice has faded to a whisper; each word requires effort and calculated timing to speak. He doesn't need to say anything to me though. I love you. My voice is as hushed as his and he squeezes my hand gently, easing me towards him. I feel his dry lips brush my cheek and inside I am screaming, sobbing at this injustice. My brother has this disease because he was helping people. A stupid accident and he's the only one that has got hurt. He was a good person, he was caring, kind, always looking out for those he loved…there are far worse people in this world...so why is my little brother being taken from me? Scott…my name comes as a slow breath from his lips. I place both of my hands around his as I see him visibly struggling for his next breath. I don't really want to go... His confession shocks me. He's always seemed so accepting, so calm about death. I can't help it; I let out a harsh sob and press my head into his chest. I feel his hand in my hair, brushing it back from my forehead gently as I try and compose myself for the sake of my brother. I feel his chest shudder and lift my head slowly. Tears run from his eyes and he smiles understandingly. Rubbing my hand across the base of my nose, I face him, looking into his eyes. He is going, he knows it…and I know it. I resist the overwhelming urge to scream out to him to hang on…another hour…I don't want him to leave…I can help him…

But he slowly closes his eyes, his body slowly sinking into the bed and I'm alone…