Anima Mea

[movie-verse] After an accident with Brains' prototype neural net control system, Scott struggles to find his way home

This story is based on the 2004 movie 'Thunderbirds', directed by Jonathon Frakes for Working Title Productions, and based on the 1960s television series of the same name, created by Gerry Anderson. It is a work of fan fiction. The writer makes no claim to the characters or situations, and derives no profit from them.

The neural net skull-cap Brains was working on appeared only in passing in the Thunderbirds film, but I was intrigued by its potential, and this is the result. The rating is for some mild bad language. Any comments or suggestions are more than welcome – even a brief review, or a negative one, is somewhat less nerve-wracking than an eerie silence, and is ultimately more helpful.

I hope you enjoy the story.

I come to awareness slowly.

My first impression is of the noise. There are no words that I can pick out, no recognisable sounds, but I can hear something all around me nonetheless. It's almost literally indescribable. Words or no words, there is meaning in the white static. I can feel the information flow in that constant chatter,

Confused, I try to open my eyes. And that's when I realise that I don't have any.

There is a moment in which I feel nothing but panic. I can't feel my hands, can't feel my feet, can't even feel the deep sensations of breathing and heartbeat that I've always taken so much for granted. And yet, formless and insensitive as I am, I know I'm moving, being buffeted along by the information-noise itself.

Where the hell am I?

I 'hear' a chatter, 'turn' without changing position, 'see' the tidal wave of data heading my way and try to brace myself. I feel a pressure as it surrounds me, embraces me, and then I'm lost in the rush of sound and colour.

- o -

Dad looks pale, his eyes bloodshot. He falls into the chair of Command and Control as if it's the only thing keeping him from sinking all the way to the ground. If I could, I would be frowning. I'm watching him from a strange angle, somewhere close to head height on the sitting man, and from not far in front of him. I try to look from side to side, to see if anyone is with him, but I find myself stuck with this one view, immobile. It's as if I'm watching a video feed of my tired father rather than actually seeing him.

He pinches the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes tight shut. Slowly, he sits back in his chair, and reaches out with his left hand to touch a virtual switch on one of the screens.

"Thunderbird Five, come in," he says quietly, but I'm not listening any more. The moment he activated the communications link, I felt myself stretching, pulled in two directions at once, spread almost impossibly thin. Desperately, I put all my will into holding myself together. I can feel the importance of doing so. I might not understand the rules of this weirdness, but that hurt! I tug together my unravelling mind, and only then become aware that I'm no longer watching my father, but seeing John instead, my brother frowning as he activates his transmitter to reply.

The transmitter! The breath catches in my imaginary throat. I've given up trying to find new names for the sensations, easier to think of them as something normal, so as far as I'm concerned my eyes are widening as I replay the sensation of being an overstretched elastic band through my memory. I try to understand. I'd started out watching my Dad through what had to have been his computer's camera, then the travelling-stretching feeling, now this. Could it be … am I actually inside the transmission?

"Thunderbird Five receivi…" John trails off as he sees our father's face, and his voice is worried as he asks the question I've wanted to ask myself since laying eyes on him. "Dad, what's wrong?"

Dad sighs. "John, there's been an accident…"

- o -

Memories creep back into my head like children wary of punishment for their truancy. I don't listen as Dad explains to John; I don't need to.

I remember wandering into the lab at Virgil's side, him glancing up at my face as we both stopped in disbelieving amazement. Brains was wearing a plastic skull cap, decorated with more electronic components than Gordon's favourite pizza has mushrooms. His expression was one of concentration so intense it could almost have been constipation instead. Fermat was watching his dad with gleaming eyes, his expression proud as Brains juggled a dozen small items in mid-air without lifting a hand from his workbench.

"What…?" My voice was incredulous.

There was a clatter and Brains gave a short cry as his toys dropped to the table. Fermat put a hand on his dad's shoulder, and looked worriedly into his eyes as Brains pulled the skull cap free of his hair.

"You shouldn't interrupt an experiment, Scott. It could be very d-d-d-, very bad." Fermat's starting to sound a lot like his dad when he scolds me these days.

Virgil's eyes were wide and excited. "Is that the neural net control system you've been talking about?"

"N-Next generation." Brains nodded.

I looked at it curiously. The concept that we might one day fly our Thunderbirds by thought alone was intriguing, but I'd always thought it one of Brains' pipedreams. I'd had no idea the project was so close to fruition.

"Fermat's been working on it all year," Brains added with a proud look at his teenage son.

The younger genius blushed. "I've just been refining the c-c-, software. Dad almost had it working last spring break."

There was a slight hesitation, everyone in the room taking a deep breath in unison. Fermat's blush deepened. Even with this year's holiday already upon us, there's still an unspoken agreement. We don't talk about last year's spring break.

Virgil shook himself first. "Can I have a go?"

I got a hand on his arm before he could step forward. "Is it safe?"

The two Hackenbackers exchanged wary and then intrigued looks. "We've both u-u-u-, both tested it," Brains told me, standing and offering Virgil his seat. "I don't see why not."

Grinning, I gave my brother a slight tug backwards, the delay just enough to let me slip into Brains' chair ahead of him. "Okay," I said. "Hook me up."

Virgil's expression was annoyed, but resigned, as Brains slipped the cap over my scalp, shaking it a bit to settle it over my hair. I gave him a quick, apologetic smile, and he couldn't help smiling in return. He understood. He'd get his turn; this one was big brother's privilege.

Fermat was telling me to close my eyes, and I did so obediently. I was only half listening as Brains started droning on about visualising a big red switch to get this started. I could feel something itching in the back of my mind.

I tried to reach a hand up to scratch it, and was startled to hear Virgil cry out. There was a clatter as something brushed past my head and then skittered off across the floor. Anxiety surged through me, and with it came more movement and more noise. My eyes snapped open, looking for what had alarmed my brother, and I realised that the chair I was in was shaking. Around me there was a tornado of pencils and paperclips, staplers, screwdrivers and electronics. It was driving the others back from me, and I could see a red line scored across Virgil's arm where something had scratched him on the way past.

Horrified, I shut my eyes again, trying to work out how I was doing this, and how to stop it. Visualise a red switch, Brains had said. Well, there was one I knew better than any other – a big red button protected by a plastic case. The usual start up sequence for Thunderbird One was fast, but this was faster: the emergency engine ignition. I reached out into the chaos, concentrating on that tickling sensation in my thoughts, and tried to see the button. At first I was lost amidst a blur of technical imagery that might have been Brains' mind on a bad trip, then I felt it. It didn't look like a button, but I could feel the connections, the throbbing energy just waiting to be summoned, and knew that this was what I had been looking for.

Even from a silo away, wrapped in a howling whirlwind, with Virgil and Fermat shouting my name, I heard the roar of my 'Bird's engines.

Okay, scratch the button idea. I scrambled desperately through the unfamiliar sensations, trying to find the right connection to break. To my left I could hear a high pitch whine, the sound of electronics in overload. I struggled to concentrate. If I'd started Thunderbird One, I had to be connected to it somehow. I tried to visualise the computer codes needed to shut the 'Bird down remotely, and realised that I wasn't just thinking of the codes, I could feel them dancing like a thousand pin pricks across my skin.

The whine to my left reached a crescendo, and then all thought stopped.

- o -

"Virgil pulled him clear after the generator blew, and gave him CPR." My Dad's voice is quiet, strangely calm. "Gordon, Alan and I didn't even know what was happening until we'd got Thunderbird One shut down."

John's expression is stunned. "Is he…?"

He holds his breath, and, insofar as I can, I hold mine too, not sure I want to know the answer.

"He's in a coma. That's all Brains will tell me. I think it's all he wants to tell me."

John gulps air, sighing shakily. "He'll be all right, Dad," he says at once. "Scott's always been a fighter."

But as my brother falls into his normal role, comforting and advising, I notice the anxiety in the lines around his eyes and in the cadence of his voice. And I wonder if Dad knows our Johnny well enough to see it too.

- o -

I'm expecting by now to snap back into that sensationless nothingness when the transmission ended. I don't expect it to tickle.

Data-burst after data-burst seems to stream around me, each brushing past what I've come to think of as my 'skin'. Some of them almost make sense to me – a few words in an alarmed voice here, a brief glimpse of a wind-whipped television reporter there – but most are encoded, meaning lost in a jumble of binary code.

I'm slowly getting used to the idea. I remember reaching hard into the Island's computer system, trying to get control of Thunderbird One. If I close my eyes I can almost remember the moment when the generator blew. Until that instant, I'd been aware of my body as a distant weight, the feel of the leather chair under me, the skull cap catching in my hair as my head tossed from side to side. Afterwards, there was only the datascape I'd been trying to get into – the rush of numbers, information and images.

Somehow, don't ask me how, when my body shut down, my mind ended up in the computer.

But not, I'm starting to realise, this computer.

The Island's mainframe felt like a sleeping giant, the great power of it apparent but held in check until needed. Every instruction was precise and thought through. It started Thunderbird One reluctantly, and had been still more cautious about shutting her down. By contrast, wherever I am now gives me the impression of an epileptic watching the billboards in Time Square. At rush hour. It's full of frenetic energy, constantly receiving and analysing sensory input.

I let the information flow carry me, unable to navigate in this strange environment, but assuming that somewhere in the midst of this chaos I have to wash up against something I recognise.

By the time I find myself engulfed in another video feed, I'm not really surprised to be looking out across the space station's main deck from a security camera somewhere near the airlock. I guessed some time ago that I've been carried to Thunderbird Five.

John sits at his control console. He hasn't moved since our father signed off, but Dad's image on the screen has been replaced by another that makes me squirm with embarrassment. I've always hated seeing myself on television. Seeing myself unconscious, an oxygen mask covering my face and my hair a disorderly and chaotic mess, is worse. John is watching the feed from the medical centre below with a blank expression that can't be healthy. On the screen, the room is dimmed, only one figure sitting by my side. Virgil reaches out a hand to touch mine - a reassuring gesture we've all inherited from our mother. Here in Thunderbird Five, John's right hand twitches, and then clenches into a tight fist. He trembles, and I realise just how badly he wants to be there by my side, and by Virgil's, looking after us both.

John would never say anything to our father. He'd never ask to be relieved of his duty. He knows I wouldn't want that. But that doesn't stop him suffering in silence, trapped out here so far from home.

I want to tell him to relax, that I'm fine, but truthfully, I'm not sure of that myself. I need to get back, not just to the island, but to the bag of bones that Virgil is looking after. Wish I knew how.

Wish you could help, Johnny. Guess this is one rescue that's beyond even the Thunderbirds, hey?

- o -

It must be an hour or more before John stirs, his hands dancing across the screens as he brings up feed after feed of information on the world below. I can feel the effects of his work, the fluctuating currents in the data flow.

They drag me out of the video stream, and I follow the signals to the main user interface. I'm getting better now at interpreting this strange world. Most of it I can't put names to, and half the time I'm going on pure instinct, but I've programmed a few computers in my time, and used more than a few more. There's a logic to it that I can feel the edges of. That's enough to get me back to John's main camera feed, dormant as it is. I curl up in the patiently ready software, sheltering from the chaos of the Thunderbird's thoughts, and begin my own less than patient wait for John's next move.

- o -

The surge of power to the video camera wakes me, and I allow myself a moment to wonder how an incorporeal mind can even sleep. I guess that when all you've got are thoughts, the need for time to marshal them is more pressing than ever. Particularly if you're about to trying riding a transmission across twenty-six thousand miles of empty space.

I stretch, fingertips clinging instinctively to the chattering mind of Thunderbird Five, even as my feet drop towards the comforting solidity of Base. For a moment, my mind is scattered, thought taking too long to cross from one part of me to the other. Then I lose my grip on the space station, and snap back together with a suddenness that leaves me stunned.

John is reporting an underwater earthquake, and warning of the tidal wave that it'll cause, but I'm not watching my brother any more. I'm back to studying the deep lines on my father's face, watching him from somewhere inside his communications screen.

I can feel the quiet power of Tracy Island's mainframe, so different from the constantly excited Thunderbird Five, as a soothing weight behind me. I feel warmth on my back, and realise that it's morning here on the Island, the sun already baking the solar panels on the far side of the mount we inhabit. Dad doesn't look as if he's slept for more than a handful of minutes since the day before. He accepts John's report with a simple thank you, asking my brother to monitor the situation and let him know if the wave reaches a populated area. John doesn't ask him if there's news. Logged in to the Island's medical computers, he'll probably know before Dad does.

- o -

I vacate the camera before Dad powers it down, already with a destination in mind. The systems on Thunderbird Five were alien to me – I've simply never spent enough time up there to get to know them. Truth be told, I've never been one to spend time alone. Which, thinking about it, is kind of ironic given my current situation. In any case, Tracy Island's computers feel far more like home.

I know that C&C is on the secure intranet, and I know that if I can tunnel through to the computer in Thunderbird One, I can tap into just about anything else on the Island with a few familiar commands. A data packet leaves C&C, pinging the network, and I latch onto it before I intend to. As before, I'm feeling my way, not quite sure how I'm doing what I'm doing, but going with the flow of things. It's what got me into this mess… maybe it'll get me out yet.

The signal reaches a router and splits and splits again. My mind summons the image of a great railway station, with all paths open to me. One is familiar, not just in the vague way that the system as a whole is, but echoing with memories of last night. I follow the ping to Thunderbird One, half aware of my sleepy 'Bird sending a data burst in reply.

The Thunderbird is in standby mode, her active systems and user interfaces powered down, her processors just ticking over as they wait for an activation command. I thought the Island was tranquil, after the chaos of Thunderbird Five, but this is truly peaceful. My 'Bird just cocks half an eye at me, decides that I don't require any thought on her part and then curls back to sleep.

Hmm, I hadn't thought of that. What would have happened if Thunderbird One hadn't liked the look of me? I guess I should be glad that I'm not showing up as a virus in the system. I'm already confused, already scared if I'll only admit it. I quite definitely do not need to be considered an intruder in the intranet. Suddenly I'm less certain of my vague plan. If I try and use Thunderbird One, I'll wake her properly. And I'm not at all sure she'll be so sanguine about my presence after that.

I realise I'm personifying a computer here, but the compulsion to do so is strong and easy enough to explain. I don't want to be the only thing alive in here, the only thing conscious. Even talking to myself like this is a reaction to the solitude. I know no one can hear me, but it's this or I start screaming in the silence of my own mind. I take a deep breath, soaking in the calm of the sleeping Thunderbird. Gently, I begin to probe her systems, working out what is and what isn't active. I pause, feeling a jittery nervousness as if there's another person here, just out of my sight. It takes me a while to interpret the sensation. It seems that my arrival is not the only thing my 'Bird is keeping an eye on.

There's someone in the silo, close enough that Thunderbird One needs to be aware of them if an emergency summons her to wakefulness. I find the security sub-system that's providing a constant, niggling warning, and slip into its data feed.

- o -

Gordon is working in silence, his coveralls almost lost beneath a layer of soot and water and his safety line fixed to the gantry he's standing on. There's no sign of the music he usually has belting out at full volume when called on to do a chore, only the clatter of his tools and the occasional roar of high-pressure water from the hose. He works systematically, first spraying and then scrubbing the carbon residue from each panel of Thunderbird One's engine casings, before spraying again. For a long moment, I just watch in amazement.

Since we decided that the 'Birds would have to be thoroughly cleaned after every firing, we've had an understanding in place. Thunderbird Two burns fuel most efficiently of all the ships, but her sheer size makes cleaning her a daunting task. My Thunderbird One produces a more yellow flame, her carbon build-up a potential problem if left unchecked, but she's also smaller, a more manageable chore. It's Thunderbird Three that really scorches her way through her occasional launches and re-entries, leaving both the launch tube and the ship herself in need of a thorough scrubbing. All in all, it balances out. If Virgil and I handle the cleaning for our own 'Birds without asking for help, we're more than happy leaving Gordon to cope with the clean-up after his seldom-used space rocket.

I would never ask Gordon to do this, not least for fear that he'd have me up at the roundhouse, checking and replacing ceramic tiles for a month to come. I'm pretty sure that Dad wouldn't ask this of him either. He probably thinks Gordon is lounging by the pool, or sneaking a snack from Onaha's kitchen. Dad wouldn't let our Gordon work alone, not this quiet, pale version of my brother.

From my vantage point in the silo camera, I watch him pause, lowering the brush to the floor of the gantry and sitting down beside it, rolling his shoulders to ease the muscles there. He speaks so quietly that I almost miss his words, forced to dial up the sensitivity on the security monitors.

"Come on, Scotty. I need you to laugh at me for cleaning your 'Bird."

He's talking to himself, not expecting me or anyone else to hear, but I have to chuckle to myself. The amusement fades away as he closes his eyes.

"I need you to point out the spots I've missed. To tell me how to do it better. Damn it, Scott! You've got to wake up. I need you!"

I want to reach out to him, to comfort him, and I can't feel anything but frustration. Instinctively, I lash out at the world around me with a virtual fist, and the picture from the security camera snaps out abruptly. I hear a crackle of sparks on the audio feed, and a gasp from my brother, and realise that I've fried the camera. Gordon sighs, and I hear him standing, picking up his cleaning equipment once again. He'll finish hosing down Thunderbird One before replacing the security device.

Sorry, little brother. I didn't mean to make work for you. I didn't mean to leave you alone, either.

I'm looking for a way out of the camera when the audio feed catches my attention once again.

"G-Gordon?" That's Brains' voice, distorted by the intercom, and I can hear the tension in Gordon's as he replies.

"Brains? What – "

Brains cuts him off before he can ask a question. The engineer's voice is apologetic as it dashes Gordon's hopes. "I was, ah, w-w-wondering, if you'd seen V-virgil?"

Gordon sighs, tiredly. "Not since Dad put him to bed an hour and a half ago. He's probably out for the count. Why, Brains?"

"I need to u-u-u, to fire up the MRI scanner."

"I thought you'd already done that?"

"That was tw-tw-twe, half a day ago, Gordon. I w-w-w, need a comparison measurement."

Gordon's voice is weary, but resigned. "I'll get the shutdown list sorted, Brains. Let's let Virgil sleep, okay?"

I'm out of the security camera feed as Brain's replies, slipping through the silo subsystems and trying to trace the communications signal. I find it just in time, clinging on to the last few bytes of data as Gordon signs off.

- o -

When Dad decided to found International Rescue, he poured an unbelievable amount of money and time and effort into the 'Birds. I thought he was being paranoid when I saw how much of all three he'd diverted away from operations-critical preparations and into the Island's medical centre… until the first time one of my brothers was hurt. Then I couldn't be grateful enough, for the X-ray machine and the ultrasound, the magnetic resonance imager and the state-of-the-art equipment that lined every wall. I'm pretty grateful for the fact that Brains lists medicine amongst his many accomplishments too. It's just a blessing that we need to use that training so seldom.

Now, reference books litter Brains' desk in the med-centre, although I can't read them properly from the camera angle I'm forced to adopt. Going by the titles, some of them are general medical texts, more are specifically focused on neuroscience. A few seem to be manuals for the MRI machine itself. We don't often use the great magnetic torus, hulking here in its side-room. It drains enough electricity to strain the Island's grid, and, while its powerful magnets are well shielded, there's still sensitive equipment in the Base that we have to shut down completely or risk disrupting.

Brains must be pretty worried if he's putting me in the medical scanner twice in one day.

The man himself is jittery, his usually precise movements replaced by a more frenetic motion. He pushes his blue-rimmed glasses up his nose, their thick lenses magnifying the dark bags under his eyes. I remember the books on the desk, and realise that Brains must have been here all night, reading frantically in the attempt to understand what's been done to me. Now he runs a hand down his white lab coat, trying to smooth the crumpled fabric. His eyes are fixed on the door, and I watch too, waiting impatiently.

Alan and Fermat wheel the trolley in. I'm lying upon it, my face half-concealed behind an oxygen mask, a slight rise and fall of my chest the only sign of life. The cardiac monitor, built into the trolley itself, beeps away steadily, but there's no movement, not a flicker of my eyes as Alan brushes a limp strand of hair away from them.

It's me. And I'm me. I reach out, trying to connect the two halves of my whole, but I'm trapped behind the glass of the camera lens, battering helplessly against it. I flicker out of the camera feed, finding my way through the other cameras, the medical computers, even the trolley, and still there's no way out. The physical and the virtual are worlds apart, and I'm ensnared in the wrong one.

I end up back in the camera feed, craving even the limited comfort of sight, and it promptly fuses in protest at my frustrated energy. I pull myself back under control with an effort, refusing to panic and refusing to give up. I find another of the Island's ever-present security cameras just in time to hear Gordon report the shutdown procedure complete.

Alan's expression is grave as Brains orders him and Fermat out of the room. He's trying to put on a brave face, to be the grown-up he thinks Dad and I want him to be, but I can see my scared little brother underneath. He's had to grow up so fast, what with one thing and another. I feel for him, but I must admit that just now, I'm more worried about myself.

Brains unhooks me from the monitor trolley with quick, efficient actions. It's strangely embarrassing to watch as he pulls the sheets, and me on them, across to the MRI's bench. He talks to me the whole time, telling me that this is a simple procedure, and won't take long. I'm pretty sure he knows I can't hear, but I still want to answer him. I feel as if I should be helping, or at least reacting in some way. Anything but lying there, inert and unresponsive.

I feel better as the bench vanishes into the depths of the magnetic field, leaving only my feet visible. Brains vanishes too, into the small computer-lined alcove to the machine's left, pulling a door across as he goes so as to make the MRI room itself into something approximating a Faraday cage. There's a hum of rising current, and the machine begins to move, its cameras rotating around my still body.

It probably takes about ten minutes for the scan to complete, but Brains sits for at least that long staring at his screen afterwards. It's long enough for me to wonder, and I take what I can only describe as a running leap, from the security systems to the medical computers and finally into the MRI machine's dedicated processors. It takes me a while to find my way around there, until I realise that I'm not in the standard medical database. I'm buried deep in Brains' private files, where not even John's Thunderbird Five can reach without a password. I don't know how I've bypassed the security, but then I don't know how I'm finding my way around at all. I guess some part of me is keeping track, assimilating the information and processing it into something I can understand. In any case, knowing where I am makes navigation easier, I just have to put myself in Brains' boots, and the logic falls flawlessly into place.

After that, it's simple to find the two scans labelled 'Scott' and time-stamped twelve hours apart. And it's not too hard to track down the comparison scan Brains took when we were installing and calibrating the system. The difference is obvious and dramatic.

I'm out of the file-store before I realise, retreating to the more familiar environs of the security network.

Now I know why you wanted to check Virgil was out of the way, don't I, Brains? He's just about the only member of the family who might have wanted to sit in on this, and might have understood what he saw.

Dad's face illuminates one of the com-screens asking for a report, and I don't know whether to hug you or hit you as I hear you lie through omission. All right, 'no change' is pretty accurate, and from the way Dad's keeping back, it's pretty clear he's not ready for the whole truth, not yet.

But thank you, Brains, for not telling them what your readings are telling you. Thanks for not telling them I'm effectively brain dead.

- o -

I don't think anyone can blame me for wanting a little comfort, for wanting a little advice. I flit through the systems, a ghost in the machine that doesn't even know it's dead yet. I don't even know where I'm going myself until I reach my destination.

The blackouts are drawn across the windows, but light spills around them, enough for me to see my sleeping brother. We've all of us had to get used to taking our rest when we can since IR went into operation, but Virgil is tossing and turning restlessly. He's always been this way. He shuts it in during the day, never showing how much tension he's carrying inside. At night, his subconscious thrashes him in punishment, and he thrashes his sheets in turn. I always know I need to watch out for my brother when I look in to find him sleeping like this.

Wish I could watch out for you now, Virge. Wish I could help you with this.

The worst of it is that I know what he's thinking. He was the one who suggested we try the device out. He agreed to letting me go first. The way he sees it, it should have been him lying in the med centre. I could argue with him 'till I'm blue in the face, and he'd listen politely, assure me I've helped, and go away still thinking this was his fault.

I should know. I'd never admit it out loud to any of them, but I'm just the same.

It's hard to articulate what my little brothers mean to me. I'm not sure there can ever be the right words.

Alan's more like me than I like to think: impulsive, bold and inclined to flamboyant gestures. I sometimes feel like apologising to Dad when I realise that I must have been just like Alan at his age. I only hope our father can keep him in one piece long enough for him to learn a little sense – as I would like to believe I did.

John's always been Dad's counsellor, the peacemaker in the family. Even when we were kids, I knew to listen when he offered his quiet advice, and I trusted him to comfort and reassure our little brothers far more than I trusted myself. I was there to protect them and guide them. John was there for cuddles.

Gordon wants to be a kid almost as much as Alan wants to be grown up, but he's stronger than he pretends. I've watched him take on the burden of International Rescue without once flinching, and I've seen him lighten the mood when the rest of us were at rock bottom. He's what keeps us laughing when times are hard. If Alan is for excitement, and John is for comfort, Gordon has always been for fun.

And Virgil. Well, if John is Dad's steady foundation, then Virgil is mine. All his life, he's had John and me as big brothers, and known that role was well and truly taken. He saw Gordon and Alan running around like maniacs, and realised that he didn't have to play the wild child either. He grew up being exactly who he wanted to be – strong, self-assured, talented, confident that he was protected, and protective of the rest of us in turn. It seems strange to say of someone with the soul of an artist, but when I want someone grounded in the real world, it's Virgil I turn to.

And, God, do I want a little reality just now.

I don't question that the MRI scan was accurate. Knowing that I'm here, trapped inside this computer, it's not hard to believe that - autonomic functions aside - my brain has shut down completely. What bothers me is the implication, the finality of it. What if I never get back? How long will my family go on hoping for me, caring for me? How will they react when Brains has to tell them that I'm simply not there any more? And how long will I have to watch them, longing to be there for them while so helpless to act?

The sun is beating down on the blackout blinds, and the room is heating up. Virgil's cheeks are flushed, his sheets twisted into tangled ropes and hanging off the edge of the bed. I want to straighten them over him, stroking his soft hair, and turning on the fans to cool him before he wakes. Looking out from the communications screen in the corner of his room, my eyes fasten on the door, willing someone to come in and look after him, but this is my job, and the others have burdens of their own today.

Determinedly, I ease out of the communications subroutines and into the household systems. It takes me longer to figure these out, but it's not too hard in the end to isolate the bedrooms from the rest of the air conditioning network and lower their temperature. Virgil sighs in his sleep as the cool air blows across him, ruffling his hair. He turns onto his side, the restless movements dying away now.

"Thanks, Scott," he mumbles, before slipping into a deeper, more peaceful sleep.

You always were perceptive, weren't you, Virge? Sleep well.

- o -

I'm getting used to haunting my family now. Tedium is beginning to overwhelm the novelty of it. As before, I slip into the communications network of the house, using the video links and the security cameras as my eyes and ears. In the lab, Fermat is tinkering with the neural network, trying to understand what went wrong. For a while, I watch and will him on, but his occasional mutter might as well be in Greek, and I long ago stopped trying to follow what goes through that boy's head. I steer clear of the med centre and move quickly past the kitchens, embarrassed to find Kyrano comforting his tearful wife.

It's only when I end up accidentally in C&C that I realise I've been avoiding Dad almost as strenuously as he's been avoiding me. I know without having to check the video logs that he's not been to the med centre since fetching Virgil to bed this morning. He's never liked the place, always avoided it, even when we were kitting it out in the first place. Seeing me there would make this real to him, and he's not ready yet to admit that I'm so badly hurt. If he stays here, he can imagine I'm out on a mission, or down by the pool, or keeping an eye on my brothers.

If he stays here, he can bury himself in the Tracy Industries paperwork strewn across the worktop, and keep his brain so occupied it has no time to dwell on what's happening.

I'm not surprised. After all, it's not the first time he's done this.

I want to be angry with him, not on my own behalf, but for the sake of my brothers. They need him now, as they did after the avalanche, as they did after the Hood's attack last spring break. And they need him more than ever without me there to step into the void he's leaving. If I die now – and God knows I don't want to, but I'm not sure I have any say in the matter – the kids will always remember that our Dad wasn't there. They'll hate him for that, and he'll hate himself for it too.

But it's not Dad's fault that this is the way his subconscious reacts. I worked out long ago that it's the fear of losing us that sends Dad into this paroxysm of paperwork, and I know that the others realise it too, even if they find it hard to understand or accept. I wonder if Dad realises the irony. It was his work frenzy after Mom died that built up Tracy Industries. The business put us in a position to found International Rescue in the first place. And it's our role in IR that risks what he values most of all – the sons that Mom gave him.

For a long while, I rest inside my Dad's computer, finding the steady clack-clack of his fingers across the keyboard soothing. He doesn't move when Kyrano brings in a plate of food for lunch, leaving it by his elbow. And he barely does more than glance up when John calls to warn him that the tsunami they discussed earlier is just an hour away from the nearest coastline. I see John's lips thinning as he studies our father, and I cock an ear to the Island's satellite downlink, not surprised when Thunderbird Five's transmission doesn't end, but switches instead, first to find Gordon sitting staring sightlessly into the pool, then to watch Virgil slowly rousing from sleep, and finally to track down Alan, standing just inside the door of the medical centre.

I follow the transmissions, John and I sharing the same video feed as we watch over our baby brother.

- o -

"Remind me not to come home next Spring Break." Alan runs a hand through his hair, leaving it more spiked and disordered than before. "It's bad for my brothers."

"I'm sorry," Fermat's voice is very quiet. He's just arrived, standing inside the doorway at Alan's side, the confident young scientist lost inside the worried child. Both boys have grown in the last year, but my brother is still head and shoulders above his younger friend. Fermat seems very small today. "I've fixed the neural net, but now I don't know what to do. We can't know what ha-ha-, what it did to Scott without someone testing it, and we can't test it because…" His voice trails off, his eyes on me.

Alan takes a hesitant step forward. This morning he was doing what he was told, confident that the new scan would help Brains find a way forward. Now he seems less certain, and I know he's picking up on what Brains and Fermat aren't telling him. He's almost as good at reading people as Virgil is sometimes. He stops a foot away from my bed, half lifting his arm as if he wants to take my hand before letting it fall away. I'm hooked up to the monitoring machines again, my pulse and breathing as regular as clockwork, my body still an empty shell. There's an IV in my arm now, keeping me hydrated, but it just adds to the overall impression of medical overload. Alan's expression is wide-eyed, horrified, as if he can't stand the sight of me like this, but can't tear his eyes away.

His eyes flash, and I brace myself, recognising the quick-flaring temper that Alan has always struggled with. Fermat sees it too, but he doesn't try to protect himself, instead his posture becomes huddled, submissive.

"What the hell did you think you were doing, Fermat?" Alan demands furiously. "Trying something like this without safety tests! Dad's going to go ballistic, if he ever surfaces from the damn office."

I grit my teeth, trying not to burn out the video camera with the urge to shake my little brother. The language is bad enough. Taking his anger out on his closest friend is just unfair.

"We didn't think it would work," Fermat admits reluctantly.

Alan stares at him, astonishment and fury warring for dominance in his expression. "You knew something could go wrong?"

"N-n-no!" Now Fermat is suddenly vehement. His head comes up. While Fermat's never going to match Alan for temper, he doesn't doubt his own competence or lack the ability to defend it. "We didn't think it would do anything. It took w-w-, months of practise for Dad and me to move anything! It takes a lot of intellect to interpret the new senses. And Scott is so, well, Scott, that it's easy to for-for, easy not to remember how b-bright he is."

I think Alan's as astonished as I am by the mix of compliment and insult in that statement. He opens his mouth, his cheeks still flushed with anger, but John's finally had enough. The communications channel we're monitoring opens into a two-way signal, and I know his image is filling the screen in the med centre side room.

"Back off, Alan," he warns, and while Dad would get a furious rebuttal, and I would get a sullen silence, John gets a quick look and then a flush of embarrassment.

"Can't you carry a bell around your neck, John?" Alan asks, guiltily.

"And miss out on all the entertainment of you snapping at your friend? Fermat's trying to help, Alan. What happened was an accident. He doesn't deserve this." John's voice softens as Alan manages a grudging look of apology, and Fermat brushes it off with a shrug. "Besides, he's right. Scott's good at hiding what he's got upstairs."

Never more so than right now, brother.

"You don't come top of the year at Oxford without being smart," Alan points out, and, despite my embarrassment, I can hear an echo of the proud ten-year-old who attended my graduation.

Fermat nods miserably. "If only we could know what he was thinking when the net overloaded like that."

John sighs, and for a long moment there's silence. My second-born brother and my baby brother are both watching me breathe, Fermat looking between them. Uncharacteristically, it's John who breaks the stillness, more to distract the boys, I think, than because he particularly wants to speak.

"I remember when Scott's third grade teacher told us he was 'gifted'. Dad was proud, Scott was mortified, and Virgil got completely the wrong end of the stick."

Alan turns towards the screen, curious, and Fermat looks up too, pushing his glasses higher on his nose with one finger. John takes their interest as encouragement, even as I'm looking around for a hole to sink into. I'm just glad that they have no idea I'm listening, and for the first time I'm relieved that my blush-prone cheeks are several metres away from the part of me that's cringing with embarrassment.

"Virge had only heard of one kind of gift, and that was a birthday present. He managed to convince himself – and convince Gordon – that if Scott was gifted, it must mean Dad was about to give him away. We had a week or so in which Virgil kept sneaking out of the kindergarten playground to check Scott was still there, and Gordy would howl the place down if our big brother wasn't first out of the school when Mom brought him to pick us up."

Alan is listening, wide-eyed, trying to imagine his big brothers as kindergarten kids. I'm smiling to myself, remembering the indignity of being a third grader with a five-year-old brother who clung to me in the playground, and a three-year-old whirlwind at home who bawled his eyes out if he lost sight of me. John's smile is just a little on the evil side, knowing he's giving Alan ammunition for some time to come, but it has a wistful edge, and I know that he hasn't forgotten that I'm lying in the room unable to defend myself.

"In the end, Dad sat the four of us down, and promised solemnly that he would never, ever, give Scotty up."

"I don't remember that," Gordon's voice from the doorway startles all of us, I think. He grins, his eyes dancing with amusement, but the expression fades almost as quickly as it arrived, and he throws a worried glance at where Virgil is standing slightly in front of him. "What about you, Virge?"

Virgil is pale, but his expression is calm. His deeply-shadowed eyes are already fixed on my face, and it hurts to see the mask he's put up across his emotions. I know he'll pay for it later.

"I remember some of it, I think," he says softly. "I remember Dad promising."

John's voice is soft too. "He's not giving up, Virge. He's just – "

"Just Dad," Virgil interrupts, not looking up. "I know."

Gordon and Alan exchange looks that are more angry than understanding. Fermat shifts uncomfortably, feeling overwhelmed by the brotherliness in the room, I think. "I ought to get back to work," he says eventually, making a move towards the door.

Virgil steps towards my bed, while Gordon moves to one side to let the younger boy past. Virgil's expression is perfectly neutral as he glances up at Alan and Gordon, before flicking his eyes to the screen showing John's face. "Why don't you all get on with things? I can stay with him for a while."

It's a dismissal, and everyone knows it. Alan and Gordon look anxiously to John, and he hesitates before nodding. They excuse themselves, and John's face fades from the screen, but it's several minutes before the video link to Thunderbird Five shuts down, giving Virgil his privacy.

- o -

I watch Virgil watching me. It's a relief when he sighs, and picks up one of the laptop units from the desk. I feel better as he taps away, checking medical records and the technical report Fermat's written up on the neural net device. I know he won't find the most serious data on my condition – Brains has that locked tight – but any kind of activity must be better for him than this silent vigil.

The feeling of helplessness is growing inside me, and I try again and again to get back to that inert lump of flesh and bones on the bed. No matter how close I get, no matter which of the devices monitoring me I try, I just can't make the final connection I need to get home.

I leave the room before my anger spills over, and burn out two of the security cameras in the common room in a fit of sheer pique. I muster a little self-control before I head to the third, and tap in to the picture in time to see Gordon and Fermat staring in confusion at the still-sparking devices.

I can't help feeling embarrassed at my outburst, and it's actually a relief when a klaxon sounds through the building, dragging the boys to their feet and up towards C&C at once.

I beat them to it, moving through the com system at the speed of thought. Dad looks up as they come through the door. The paperwork has been pushed to the ground, clearing the desk, and John's face is looking out from one of the screens. Dad's expression is grim but determined. Alan arrives at a run, and Dad gives him a firm nod of acknowledgement, nodding towards the portraits on the wall, and the transport mechanisms behind.

"Alan, launch Thunderbird One. John will brief you."

Alan's eyes widen, and he's not alone in his surprise. I want to shout out a protest, tell Dad that Alan's not ready for this. I look at Alan, expecting to see a delighted grin, but his face is pale, and there is actually fear in the set of his shoulders. He moves towards the chute without question, and I watch him go apprehensively, afraid for my baby brother and my Thunderbird in roughly equal measure.

Dad's not looking at Alan, or even at the others, as he continues. "A mine's been flooded by that tsunami John warned us about. There simply wasn't enough time for them to complete their evacuation. They reckon upwards of a hundred miners are trapped in some of the deep galleries. It's up to us to get them out."

"We'll need the Mole, and possibly the high-volume pump unit as well. Gordon, make sure they're loaded. Vir – " Dad's voice stops abruptly, and now he looks up with a frown. He and I have noticed simultaneously who's missing from this rescue muster. "Where's Virgil?"

"We left him in the m-medical centre, Mr Tracy," Fermat volunteers.

"This is an emergency, not a family outing! Every member of the organisation should - "

Gordon had been heading towards his chute. Now he hesitates. "He'd be here if we needed him, but we've got Fermat and Alan home. I don't think you're going to shift him, Dad."

"Thunderbird Two should have a crew of three! If we need to man the Mole and the pumps simultaneously…"

"I'm ready, Mr Tracy," Fermat insists, and there's no excitement in his voice, only determination.

"Dad, one of us should be on the Island." John's interjection from the com-link to Thunderbird Five cuts through the rising tension in the room like a knife. Gordon and Fermat start to breathe again, and Dad shakes his head. "One of us needs to be there in case… in case Scott wakes up."

Dad freezes. He heard the hesitation in John's voice. He knows as well as I do what Johnny doesn't want to say. He shakes his head, pushing the thought aside. "Fine," he snaps. "John, keep an eye on your brothers. Gordon, you have your orders. Fermat, get Thunderbird Two prepped. I'll be there as soon as possible."

The kids are in their chutes already as Dad strides from the room. I follow my father through the house, skipping from camera to com-screen, feeling guilty about how many I've fried along the way. He stops at the door of the med centre, taking a deep, trembling breath before opening the door.

Virgil looks up, startled, and his expression becomes a rare look of open defiance. "I'm not - "

"I know." Dad holds up a hand to still my brother's protest as he strides into the room. He doesn't look at Virgil. He only sees me. He stops by my bedside, resting a hand briefly on my shoulder. "I want you up and out of here by the time I get back, Scott," he tells my motionless body firmly, before turning and walking out of the room. He doesn't have to say more. I know he's saying goodbye, just in case.

- o -

The transmission from base to Thunderbird Five stretched me like a strand of spaghetti falling into a black hole. By comparison, the short hop from C&C to Thunderbird One is almost comfortable. What I'm not expecting is the blaze of noise and colour when I get there.

Until I'd got used to it, Thunderbird Five's computer had been a sensory overload, chaos incarnate. The fully alert Thunderbird One feels more like a hyperactive three-year-old, its concentration intense but short lived, darting from one thing to the next, and always returning to the joy of running as fast as it can. Alan is going through diagnostic routines by the book, checking that everything's in order, even as he pushes the engines to top speed. Thunderbird One responds happily, assuring him that she's ready for anything.

Alan finishes the diagnostics. He's already halfway to his destination when Thunderbird Two reports take off, and I thank whatever mercies there are that this emergency is at least relatively close by. John calls with a situation update, but Alan's eyes never leave his heads-up display. I watch as Alan flies my 'Bird with an ease that belies his inexperience. The kid must have spent almost as many hours in the simulators over the years as I have in my Thunderbird.

"If the mine's flooded, why do they think there are still people alive?" Alan's question is surprisingly pertinent, and I can hear a note of approval in John's voice.

"Apparently the lift-shaft is the lowest point on each level. The galleries slope upwards away from it."

"So even if the lift's flooded, there can still be air pockets at the ends of the galleries?" Dad asks over the radio from Thunderbird Two.

"That's it, Dad. Only one problem. I've looked over the mine layout drawings, and the ones they have on record only show three sub-surface levels. The folks on the ground who called this in told me their people are trapped on level five."

I hear a muffed swearword from Gordon. "How the hell are we meant to find these people if we don't even know where the tunnels are?" he demands.

"I can't get a hold of anyone down there. It sounds like 'chaotic' would be an understatement. I'm hoping that the management at the mine have a more accurate plan," John admits. "I sure can't find one online."

Dad's silent for a moment. Alan already has his orders – locate a suitable landing site for Thunderbird Two, perform an aerial survey of the danger zone so as to identify any sinkholes that might be draining into the mine, and take a scan for people on the surface who might have ignored the evacuation order. Above all, don't try to land my skittish Thunderbird on the flooded ground. If I were the one in Thunderbird One, Dad would be changing those orders right now. I hold my breath. Will he...?

"Thunderbird One, you're going to have to find somewhere to land, and get hold of the people in charge of this place." Dad's orders are sharp, determined. "We'll need those plans before Thunderbird Two gets there."

"F.A.B." Alan acknowledges, swallowing hard. I can't help smiling.

You'll be fine, baby brother. Although if you scratch my 'Bird, I won't guarantee you'll stay that way.

- o -

Alan has every sensor he can think of pointed at the ground as he makes a single high speed sweep over the danger zone. I feel the information flow past me, suppressing a flare of indignation as my 'Bird shunts me gently but firmly to one side so she can get to work on assessing it. The impression of hyperactivity remains, but this computer no longer reminds me of a child. She's deadly serious as she analyses the images first for concealed heat signatures, then for unstable structures, and finally for evidence of organised activity, before spitting a summary of the information onto the screen for Alan to see.

He hesitates, his eyes drawn to the flashing line at the top of the screen. Thunderbird One has identified a live heat source, a single person trapped in a huddle of collapsed surface buildings two miles from here.

Alan closes his eyes. "I thought they were all told to get out," he mutters.

I know how he's feeling, can sympathise more than ever with his feeling of helplessness, but he's got to make the right decision here. Dad and the others are depending on him, and the blur of heat signatures around the mine head are telling their own story. Even discounting the people on the surface, there's a diffuse glow on our sensitive scanner from the men trapped below. Angrily, Alan opens a data channel to Thunderbird Five, asking John to pass on the lone victim's location to the overstrained local services.

I'm proud of him. If he can, I know, Alan will be back, but each of us has learnt the same harsh truth. We can't save them all.

Thunderbird One is hovering now, her radar scanning the ground for stable landing sites below the foot or so of water that remains on the surface. Very slowly, very carefully, Alan brings her in to land, rotating the ship at the last minute to avoid frying the miners running towards him. John was right; it's chaos outside. According to the scanners, the mine head buildings are in ruins, collapsed under the force of the tidal wave. Alan has his work cut out for him: even if paper plans for this mine exist, they must surely have dissolved into useless pulp in the flooded wreckage.

Nonetheless, Alan's expression is resolute as he reaches out for one of the switches above his head, ready to power down the majority of Thunderbird One's systems. For a moment I'm confused, startled by his decision, but I realise with a jolt that the simulators Alan's been using are out of date – not by much, but by enough to make all the difference in this situation.

I've got to move quickly, before my inexperienced brother cuts off the power I need. Unlike Alan though, I don't have the burden of unwieldy limbs to slow me down. I'm getting good at this now, and I have a level of comfort with this computer system that simply wasn't there with the others I've encountered in the last twenty-four hours. Fermat may not have rated my intellect all that highly, but his dad at least knows the way my mind works. Thunderbird One's control systems were designed for me to find as intuitive as possible.

If this is how the neural net control system was meant to perform, then I might yet recommend to Dad that he lets the research continue. It only takes me microseconds to find my way to the subsystem I want, and for the first time today, when I order it to activate, it does so without hesitation.

Alan is staring at the small screen that has just illuminated in the cockpit, his hand still hovering above the power-down switch. He hesitates, lowering his arm.

"Uh, Dad, how long has Thunderbird One had ground-penetrating radar?"

There's a pause of several seconds before the answering signal from Thunderbird Two. I think Dad had forgotten about our new capability too. "About a month. It's one of Brains' new designs. Scott's agreed to test it out when we got the chance."

Alan watches the screen in astonishment as I send out pulse after pulse. I'm impressed myself as Brains' software quickly builds a three-dimensional model of the mine. It requests additional angled radar bursts, which I add immediately to the survey.

"Alan, there's no time to teach you to use it just now," Dad's voice is frustrated. "I'm not sure I know myself. I don't even know how you figured out it was there."

Alan swallows hard, and there are sudden tears in his eyes. "Thanks, Scotty," he whispers. When he raises his voice, speaking again to the microphone, there's no sign of the emotion. "Scott must have had it set on automatic, Dad. I'm transmitting a 3-D plan of the mine to you now."

He does so quickly, and I send it to the built-in laser printer in the Mobile Control unit too. Alan jumps when he hears the whir and rustle of paper at the back of my cabin, but he doesn't question it. He snatches the printout as he runs from the cockpit and down to Thunderbird One's hatchway. Through my surface sensors I can see him interrogating the mine workers that surround the ship, checking that the newly made plan is accurate and demanding to know where the trapped men are likely to be.

It's less than five minutes before he's back in the cockpit, annotating the map on the screen and transmitting it again to our father. By the time Thunderbird Two appears on our local sensors, heading for the landing zone Alan's identified, we're back in the air and heading to the isolated heat signature in the ruined village.

"Thunderbird Five, tell Dad I've got a rescue of my own," Alan tells John firmly.

"Will do, Sprout. Be careful."

Alan just nods, his hands gripping my controls tightly.

- o -

A shiver of concern slides between me and the computer's logic. I tear myself away from Thunderbird One's automated mind with an effort, only now realising how intertwined we've become. I'm almost forgetting what it feels like to have hands and feet of my own, to be able to move without being wrapped in this shell of metal. It was easy to sink into synergy with my 'Bird, actualising the connection I've always felt with her. But I'm more than a Thunderbird, I'm a big brother too.

Alan's not noticed it, and Dad has a rescue to organise, but I'm feeling cold all over. John's response to that one has sent up enough warning flags to fill the United Nations. He let Alan's declaration past far too easily. He knows as well as I do that Alan's not ready to be out in the field alone. John actually sounded distracted, and I can't imagine what's important enough to tear his attention away from a rescue in progress, let alone a rescue like this.

I don't want to leave Thunderbird One. I'm terrified of leaving Alan. I grit my teeth, bracing myself for the discomfort, and tell myself I won't be gone long as I dive into the open communications channel with Thunderbird Five.

This time I know to get out of the communications system on Thunderbird Five fast. I make my way to the security network before the wash of signals can smother me, or send me plunging back to Earth. I'm looking over John's shoulder towards the screen when I find my way into a security camera feed. I can see his face reflected from the monitors showing the mine plan, and he's frowning, but not at the radar map. His eyes are on the small screen above and to the left, the one showing Virgil tapping away at a laptop as he sits by my side. The image shifts, and I realise that it's playing in reverse, the direction difficult to detect as both Virgil and I remain near motionless. Eventually, it stops, John pausing the recording at the moment that Virgil glances up towards the com-screen camera and quickly back down at his own computer. He pages through the frames more slowly, and I can see why the action attracted his attention. The look of anxiety and regret on Virgil's face is so profound that my breath catches. I long to be there with him, comforting him.

It's as John blanks a second screen, bringing up the same camera feed from first five minutes before, then ten, then fifteen that I realise why my brother's scared half to death. He finds the image he's looking for precisely twenty minutes earlier, and it's a perfect match. No wonder that furtive, fearful look caught his eye; he's seen it before.

I'm diving out from the security feed and into the Island downlink before John's hand can begin its painfully slow journey to the panic button. I'm feeling pretty panicky myself, travelling as fast as I can, not letting myself wonder why Virgil has looped the video feed, and what he's been doing since.

- o -

Bypassing the camera loop will take John several minutes at the least. With my full attention focused on it, I slip past in less than a heartbeat. My relief at seeing Virgil standing by my bedside leaves me feeling weak and angry. I want to shake him for scaring me like that. Then I see the technology scattered around him, and I realise that my relaxation may have been premature.

Virgil has rigged himself to even more monitoring equipment than surrounds me. The heart-rate monitor makes a steady chiming sound, a counterpoint to the more sedate rhythm of my distant pulse. The EEG is showing rapid, but normal, activity, its sensor wires trailing up to Virgil's brow line and vanishing under the cap of the neural net device. His hand hovers over the switch to its generator.

God, Virgil! Don't do this! When Fermat fixed the damn thing, I'm pretty sure he didn't expect anyone to be fool enough to try using it.

Virgil's eyes are calm, his expression resolute as he watches the steady rise and fall of my chest. "Twenty-four hours, Scott," he breathes the words, and for a moment, I forget that he doesn't know I'm listening. "Do you know how bad the prognosis is after twenty-four hours with your response level? I'm pretty sure you don't, and I don't think Dad even wants to know. Brains has run out of ideas. He was checking on the weird power fluctuations we've been having all day when I sneaked this out of the lab."

Virgil might have been talking about the weather, given the matter of fact tone in his voice. He barely glances towards the door when first a rattle of the handle, and then a pounding against it, reveals that John's alarm has been heard.

"I know you're still here, Scott. I know you're trapped somewhere, caught up in what happened to you. I know you need help to get back, if only we can figure it out."

He pauses, his eyes flicking again towards the door. There's a glow coming from the lock now as Brains tries to break it open. It'll take time. Too much time.

"Brains needs more data. And he's not going to get it from the tests he and Fermat did before. Whatever readings they took on themselves back then, they're useless when it comes to what happened to you. The two of them, they're logical, mathematical. That's not how you think, Scott. We're visual thinkers, you and me. We see patterns in shapes, not in numbers. They act on reason alone, we trust our instincts." His hand rises, hovering above the intricate components that cover the skull cap. "Whatever this thing did to you, they couldn't reproduce it in a million years."

He takes a deep breath, and I know what's coming next.

"I can."

I've been getting used to being no more than a discorporate sentience. The computer system has seemed more and more like the real world to me, and less like some illusion of wires and electrons, data and programs. Riding Thunderbird One put me almost on a high, and I'd started to accept that maybe I'd never get back to the flesh and blood version of me that's lying there so peacefully.

Now I rage against my folly, railing furiously against the fate that's trapped me so close to Virgil, yet too far away to do anything to prevent this. If I could lift one finger, twitch one toe, it would be enough. I'd give anything to be able to stop my brother as he settles himself in the chair beside me, one hand touching mine lightly. I'm screaming in the silence of my mind as he reaches out to activate the neural net.

Virge! Virgil, don't!

If I had lungs and breath, I would be sobbing the words as Virgil's eyes open wide. I know he's feeling the tickle in the back of his mind. I'm telling him not to look at it, not to give in, but I know he can't hear me.

He opens himself to the neural net, and now the entire room seems to be shaking, trembling as my brother does.

I know I've got to get to him. He'll be as lost as I was when I first found myself in this data-scape, a child unable to interpret its environment. I move through the computer system faster than I ever have, sliding from server to server, trying to find my way to the neural net's processor, hoping he'll still be there.

I don't know how I appear in the data stream, I can't imagine being outside myself looking in. As far as I'm concerned, I'm just a mess of conflicted emotions, my mind held together by force of will against the constant bombardment of information. I feel washed up, exhausted, fraying at the edges.

I'm pretty sure I'm nothing like the blaze of light that I recognise instantly as Virgil.

Where my mind is all impulse, flickering through the system on a whim, this mind is all discipline. It calls to me, echoing through the network like the sound of home, He's lost, confused, almost drowning in the conflict of sensory information, but he's not afraid. He's not here to explore, doesn't go racing off the way I did. I can feel him concentrating on his breathing, on the sensation of the chair beneath him, on the feel of my skin against his palm. He can see the data-scape spreading out in front of him, but he refuses to be drawn into it, resisting its siren call. He's here to hold the door open, my beacon, welcoming me home.

I reach for him as I did for Thunderbird Five, for Thunderbird One, for any of the dozen security cameras I've burnt out during the day. I feel his shock as I pour into him, his delight and relief. I can feel sweat beading on his forehead, his body struggling to cope as my mind and his send off conflicting signals.

I hate myself for the pain I'm causing him, and catch his dismay at my emotion, but I'm not here to stay. I can feel limp fingers in ours, skin ridges pressing against our palm, and the sensory connection is enough. There's my way home.

I dive through, and a moment later the connection is broken, Virgil and I snatched apart in a split second.

- o -

Everything is darkness and weight. Each breath is an effort, heaving the air into my lungs, feeling a profound relief when I expel it. Every heartbeat thunders through my head like cannon fire, and I can feel the pounding, surging rhythm of my own pulse.

After the lightness and freedom, I suddenly feel trapped, confined in this brutal, limited, physical world.

I fight my way to consciousness for one reason only. I have to know what's happened to him.

The light hurts my eyes, the pain shooting through the long-dormant neurons to rattle around my skull. For an endless moment, I can't remember how to interpret the flare of information, so different to anything I've experienced in the last day. But my body remembers, and my mind is starting to catch up.

The blur in front of me can only be Brains; the shimmer in his hands is the skull-cap he's snatched off Virgil. I feel a deep-seated reaction in my gut as I realise that there's a weight slumped across my chest. Brains has dropped the neural net now, leaning over Virgil, pulling him back from on top of me. I want to cry as I struggle to remember how this damn body works.

Virgil was standing in the doorway for me, but what side was he on when it closed?

"Virge?"

My voice was a croak, but it draws a gasp from Brains. "S-S-Scott!"

My eyelids, already open a crack, are gently pulled wide, and I cry out as a blaze of light more intense than any I can remember spears into my brain, first through one eye and then the other. I hear him mutter an apology as the light blinks out, and I close my eyes, whimpering despite myself.

"Virgil?" I try again, and this time it's closer to something intelligible. I can feel movement beside me, and I know it's Brains, checking again on my brother. Panic is setting in now, but then I feel something twitch against my hand. Long, fine fingers are intertwined with mine, and my breath catches in my throat as they tighten.

"I'm here, Scott." Virgil sounds tired, and I momentarily envy him his coherence, but his throat isn't as dry as mine, and he hasn't just had to relearn how the world works for the second time in a day.

I squeeze his fingers back, as hard as my stiff muscles will let me, and hear him laugh as I whisper.

"So am I."

- o -

My Dad's a great believer in sleep as a natural healer, so I'm not too surprised to hear him hushing the others as I wake. It's dark in the room, and from the feel of time elapsed, I would be surprised if it's not night-time outside.

There's a slight yelp, and I open my eyes to see Alan hopping on the spot, Fermat whispering an apology for stepping on his foot. Given how crowded the room is, Alan can't really blame him. I frown as I look around, my eyes slipping past the mud-streaked uniforms of Fermat, my two youngest brothers and father, and moving onwards to find only Brains.

"Where's Virgil?" I ask softly, and there's a collective intake of breath. I've startled them.

"And hello and good evening to you too," Gordon manages with a laugh.

I can't help smiling, and my smile broadens as I realise that the world doesn't seem so loud and frightening as it did earlier. Maybe Dad's right, after all. Sleep has given my mind time to readjust, and already the memories of the last day seem unreal and bizarre.

"Hello Gordon," I say, coughing slightly past the hoarseness of my throat. I manage to get one elbow under me, pushing up. My Dad steadies me so I can sip water through the straw Brains offers. The chilled water feels good across my mouth and tongue, but I push the straw away. "Now, where's Virgil?"

"Next door, son," Dad supplies. "He's tired, but fine. Brains just wants to keep an eye on him."

"Did you save the miners?" I ask, sinking back into the softness of my sheets, revelling in their cool pressure against my skin.

They're all staring at me now. "How do you know about that?" Fermat blurts out.

I accept that as a 'yes', knowing that they'd be displaying more guilt than confusion if they'd failed. I take in Alan's expression at a glance, and know that he too has returned triumphant.

"Your first solo rescue," I congratulate him. The look on his face goes from concern for me to a proud grin, before reverting to bafflement.

"Gordon can show you how to clean Thunderbird One," I tease, watching my second-youngest brother open his mouth to protest before he thinks better of it. I give him a look that puts all my apology and gratitude in it. "Thanks, Gordy."

Gordon's expression is thoughtful, but the others are starting to look anxious and I realise that, as far as they're concerned, I'm rambling. I'm more tired than I thought, but then, it's been a long day. "Sorry."

My father leans forward, and even with my eyes drifting closed, I feel the kiss he lays on my forehead. "You get some sleep, Scotty," he tells me softly. "And welcome back."

- o -

I wake in the middle of the night, the overwhelmingly physical discomfort of a full bladder actually strangely reassuring. I shift, the tug of wires against my skin warning me that I'm still hooked up to the heart-rate monitor, while a deeper pain in the back of my hand lets me know the IV is still in place. I disentangle myself awkwardly, making sure to switch off the machines before removing the sensors. The last thing I need is to trigger an alarm while everyone is sleeping. I see a jug of water and a glass by my bedside, and drain the first tumbler-full in one long gulp. The IV may have kept me hydrated, but my throat and stomach are protesting the lack of fluids.

The sound of pouring water makes my other problem more urgent, and I swing my legs off the bed, pausing to tie the string on my pyjama bottoms before I trip and give myself a concussion to add to my woes. There are facilities in an alcove off the room and I make use of them, feeling a certain relief to find my legs and sense of balance – and everything else – working as normal.

I stand beside my bed, one hand resting on it, but feel no desire to get back up onto it. My mind is still weary, but my body has been still for a full day and night. It wants to stretch its muscles, and shake a little life into them.

A robe is hanging from the back of the door, and I shrug my arms into it, tying it tight around my waist. Only then do I look from the sanitary alcove to the darkened com-screen and back again. I close my eyes.

"Tell me you weren't watching that, John," I say quietly.

The screen lights up and I'm not surprised. I long ago stopped trying to work out when my space-borne brother actually sleeps.

"Hey, I know when to look away so as not to get an eyeful."

"Alan's right, we should put a bell around your neck."

John looks at me, his glad eyes warring with a thoughtful expression as he remembers the conversation I shouldn't have overheard. The lights of Thunderbird Five reflect off his halo of platinum-blonde hair, giving him the look of a careworn angel. "Gordon was trying to convince me earlier that you've become omniscient. I told him to hit the sack and get some sleep."

I smile. "It's been a weird day, John."

"It's been a long one." John rubs a hand across the back of his eyes. "I'm still waiting for my heart to find its way back to my chest. It seems to have taken up permanent residence in my mouth."

"You should get some sleep too."

"Uh-huh. As soon as you get back into that bed, and stop trying to go walkabout." John's amused expression becomes serious. "I don't know what you think's been happening for the last day and a half, Scott, but Brains is still wearing an expression like he can't believe you're alive, and if you worried him that much, you're not fit to be up."

"I'm fine," I tell him, and he knows me well enough to see that I mean it, and am not just putting on an act. "I've got to talk to Virge."

Now the last trace of a smile fades from my brother's angelic face. "You can tell him from me that if he ever pulls a stunt like that again, I'll strangle him myself. It'll save me a lot of grey hairs and heartache in the long run."

I study John's face as I head to the door. I've always known his job is a hard one – to see everything we do, and never to be there with us. Now I understand the strength needed to endure that powerlessness better than ever, and my admiration for John knows no bounds. Unlike my current feelings towards our younger brother.

"Believe me, I'm not letting him off this one." I hesitate with my hand on the door handle, not quite looking at the screen, but not quite looking away from it either. "John… thanks. Thanks for watching over them. Thanks for watching over me."

John's glad expression is back now, and his smile is gentle. "Just remember that I need my big brother too. Think about that before you volunteer for any more of Brains' experiments."

"I'm fine," I repeat. My brother's reply is wiped out by a broad yawn. I grin at him. "And if I promise to go back to bed as soon as I've seen Virgil, will you do the same?"

"I think I could now," he says simply. "Good night, Scott."

"See you in the morning," I tell him as the screen goes dark. I know he'll watch until I get to Virgil's side, just in case. But I know he'll give us our privacy after that too. Despite Alan's fears, our guardian angel doesn't snoop.

- o -

Virgil's bed is a tangle of thrashing limbs and twisted sheets. I lay a hand on his shoulder as I reach his side, and his restless movements ease at once, becoming less violent and steadily less frequent. I wait until he's sleeping calmly before moving my hand, brushing stray strands back from his eyes and stroking his disordered hair smooth. Sighing, I ease the twisted sheets out from under him, shaking them out and laying them gently back over my sleeping brother.

Or not so sleeping brother.

Virgil's eyes are cracked open, watching me as I tuck him in.

"If I wake up, will you disappear?"

I laugh quietly. He used to ask me that question before, as a small child, but it only re-emerged with the Hood's attack this time last year. I give the same answer I usually do.

"I'm here for real, Virge. And I'm not going anywhere until you go back to sleep."

Virgil shifts, pushing himself up in his bed. The frightened child of the night hours fades away from his eyes, and I see the determined young man I'm so proud to have on my team.

"Then I'm definitely not sleeping any time soon."

I slip into the chair by his bed, aware of him studying me with cautious eyes.

"I'm sorry," he blurts suddenly.

I lean back in my chair, rolling my shoulders to ease the muscles, and study him in return.

"What for?"

"For letting you try that thing first."

Virgil frowns as my expression becomes hard and unforgiving.

"Wrong answer, Virgil."

"Scott?"

"What you should be apologising for is taking years off poor Johnny's life when he noticed the tape loop. For scaring me out of my wits when I saw you messing with the neural net. For taking a stupid risk that could never, ever be worth it."

Virgil's expression turned stubborn as I started that statement. By the end of it, my voice is shaking and his eyes are wide. I can't restrain myself.

"You idiot! What were you thinking? What if Brains had got into the room and shut things down a few seconds earlier? We could both have been trapped. And that's not the worst of it, is it? I needed resuscitation after that thing blew up on me. What if the same happened to you, alone in a locked room? You could have been killed, Virgil! Even if Brains could use the data to get to me, do you think I'd even want to come back, knowing you'd done that for me?"

"It was worth the risk!" Virgil insists. "You're awake, and you're you again."

"Virgil!" I would never raise a hand to him, but my brother reacts to my angry tone as if slapped. I've been known to bawl out the younger kids, but I've rarely turned the full force of my temper on him. "There are risks worth taking – we make that call every day when we're out on a rescue. We decide when to put our lives in danger for others, and we do what we can to make that danger as small as possible. There are other risks that are just plain stupid. They'd get you grounded so fast and hard you'd be buried up to your ankles in the dirt, assuming they didn't get you, or the rest of us, killed along the way." My voice softens. I can see Virgil's stubbornness weakening. He's never been one to hold onto a temper, or to fly in the face of common sense. "Be reasonable, Virge. How would you react if you saw Gordon or Alan deliberately take off their safety lines, strip out of all their gear and then dive into an inferno without backup on the off-chance that someone there needed their help?"

Virgil is looking at me now with embarrassment as well as anger in his chestnut-brown eyes. He's more than bright enough to see the parallels. "Was it really that dumb?" He shakes his head, holding on to the last vestiges of his pride. "This wasn't 'someone', Scott," he says softly. "This was you."

And that's the heart of this.

As quickly as it came, my anger is gone. It's served its purpose. I can see I've rattled him. Virgil will learn from his mistake, and next time he'll take proper precautions, act like a member of International Rescue as well as a brother. But I've no doubt there will be a next time. And I've no doubt that when it comes down to it, Virgil will put his life on the line for any of us.

I'd do the same.

I look at my brother, and know that he's the only person who can even start to understand what I've been through in the last day and a half. Even if he had never touched the neural net, I think I'd still believe that was true. I can't believe how close I came to losing him.

I sigh, reaching over to ruffle his hair. He shies back, and I laugh, standing. He obeys my instruction to lie down and I tuck the sheets back around him, telling him to close his eyes. They're drifting closed, but as sleep returns, so does the inner child he struggles so hard to hide. He opens his eyes wide, reaching out to me with one hand. I take it and put it back down on the sheets, my own resting on top of it as I sink back into my chair.

"Not going anywhere 'till you sleep, remember," I tell him. "Just promise me you'll think next time, okay?"

He does so, in a sleepy murmur, and I lean back in the chair, my own eyes drifting closed. For a moment, as my vision fades, I remember my first moments in that other space and my panic as I realised I couldn't see. My pulse jumps, and I feel Virgil's hand shift under mine, turning until our fingers entwine. I swallow hard, and meet the tired brown eyes watching me with concern.

"And Virgil?"

"Yes, Scott?"

"Thank you."

- o -

THE END