Disclaimer: The Thunderbirds do not belong to me. They belong to their respectful owners. Nor do I own the little bit from Mary Poppins (a small bit – not enough to make it a cross over, and different formatting to get it showing up). From the guidelines, Disney hasn't been banned, so I think it's okay as long as I lay no claim to it, which I don't. No money is made from this; just written under a lack of sanity.

AN: The chocolate Easter bunny I ate yesterday was really disguised as something else. A crack!fic Plot Bunny, coupled with severe A/U and OOCness from this point in. I knew I shouldn't have bought and eaten a reduced-to-clear bunny. But it was Lindt going for two dollars! Lindt!
Four hours of Math1001 (I'm finally understanding the whole Usyd = u sleep, you die expression), heaps of chocolate and eternal boredom reduced me to this. *shakes head*

A shout out and a thanks to the power of infinity to Darkflame's Pyre for reading over this beforehand and then encouraging me to post it. You are a brave soul for daring to read the madness my brain spewed out.

The Easter Hangover

The brief holiday season takes its toll.

The sun rose over the Malaysian jungle, throwing the dense vegetation into a glow of blood red. There were a few animals prowling around on the jungle floor, no doubt making their way back to their homes to retire for the day. From far away, a dull roar could be heard.

But this did not affect the man with the large, dome-shaped head inside his stoned pyramid. Instead, he groaned from where he lay on the stone floor, sleepily opening his eyes and rubbing at the chocolate stains from around his mouth. He whimpered piteously at his lack of self-restraint over the Easter holiday period. He knew how those damned chocolate Easter bunnies affected him, how they left his powers skewed, how having non-functional powers made him vulnerable. To counteract this, he promised himself that each year; he would resist the lure the chocolate bunnies gave him, with their melting brown eyed stare. Each year, he failed. He gave into his desire, his yearning for some chocolate. Every year, he paid the price for his weakness.

The dull roar grew into a deafening roar, sending vibrations down through the pyramid. It drew the Hood out of his pity-party-for-one, acting as a subtle reminder for his plans. Squinting at the planner on his walls (he had to write all his evil plans down, otherwise he'd forget about them, especially around the Easter period), his eyes widened in shock.

That was today? I could have sworn I scheduled it for next week!

Damn his chocolate hangover!

Well, it did explain why he could hear International Rescue flying overhead. He had to get to where they were going to be. Hurriedly, he pulled his bunny socks – they were an Easter gift from his counterpart in Germany; it seemed rude not to make use of it – and retied his robes.

It was time to carry out the second stage to his plan.

There he stood, heroically behind his Mobile Control unit. The dark-haired Devil's Spawn.

It took all his strength to refrain from spitting on the ground. The Hood had never been this close to the members of International Rescue undetected before. Any sound, and he was sure to be found.

It wasn't easy, biding his time, but it was a necessary evil that had to be done. His fingers itched, and his legs begged him to let him pounce on the man in blue in front of him, but the Hood controlled his urges.

Patience was a virtue he could exercise on the rarest of occasions.

The pain hit the twenty-six year old man in blue the same way a thumb would hurt after being hit with a meat cleaver.

He had been kidnapped – or was it adult-napped, since he had long left his childhood behind – and drugged. He knew that much. He could feel the needle stick in the crook of his elbow, could feel his pupils dilate to a point that wouldn't have been possible without the aid of illicit substances. It wouldn't last long in his system; not with his fast metabolic rate anyway. He could feel the effects of whatever it was weakening within his body. In half an hour, an hour tops, the drug would have been metabolised, leaving him as he was before he had been taken.

Wherever he was, it was dark, with the exception of a yellow, luminous light source. Turning his head, he hoped it was a ray of sunshine, illuminating the way out.

"Hello, Mr. Tracy," a soft voice crooned. The light seemed to glow brighter, and Scott realised the trap he had walked right into.

"No!" he protested, squeezing his eyes shut.

But it was too late.

He could feel himself slipping under.

It had been too long since John Tracy had been allowed on a rescue.

Thanks a lot, Alan, for leaving me stuck up on Five all the time!

But, here he was, back in the saddle, since Virgil and Gordon were out for the count with the flu. It was a bit like riding a bike; he wobbled a bit in the beginning, unsure and unsteady in his ability, but after a few minutes, he settled into his rescuer's role quite comfortably.

With all that he could save, saved, it was time for John to check in with Scott. Raising his wrist to his mouth, he activated the communications device.

"John to Mobile Control."

Silence.

"Scott? Are you receiving me?"

More silence. The hairs on the nape of John's neck stood up on end. For Scott to not answer his hails meant something had gone terribly wrong. Changing tack, he called Alan up on Thunderbird Five.

"Alan, can you get me a location for Scott? He's not answering my calls."

"I know," Alan replied. "He went off-grid for about half an hour. His signal's back, but I'm trying to localise it."

"And you didn't tell me about this?" John all but exploded.

"You were underground! What could you have done? I didn't want to worry you!"

John took a deep, calming breath. Now was not the time, or the place, to berate Alan for his misconduct.

"Just get a fix on his location, and then send the coordinates to my watch. John, out!"

Waking up this time was a bitch on heat, Scott groaned to himself as he pushed himself up into a slouching position.

"Ah, Mr Tracy, how polite of you to join me again."

Scott opened his mouth, intending to ask where the hell he was, but something drastically different came out of his mouth.

"In the jungle, in a cave,
By the Hood I've been enslaved,
When will I go free?
I really have to pee.
It's me I know Johnny will save."

Horrified, Scott clamped a hand over his mouth. The Hood could only stare on in wonderment. So that was what had happened to his power. Instead of having the ability to brainwash people into doing his bidding, in his weakened state, all he could do was force someone to talk in tongues.

"Quiet, you!" the Hood snarled, wondering how his hypnotic powers had failed so miserably. The man from International Rescue was useless to him in this state. He scowled at himself in pity.

Scott couldn't agree more with the Hood's suggestion, chewing on his hand to stop words from tumbling out. There was something a little off with the way he was talking, but he didn't know what it was, or how to prevent it. He detested not being able to communicate properly; his primary job revolved around communication. Not being able to talk in the manner he wanted to really grated on his nerves.

Time trickled by. Scott let his mind wander, allowing his head to loll against the stone wall backing. It was a better distraction than focusing on the fact that his bladder was fit to burst. The Hood, on the other hand, appeared to have gotten bored. Staring at his adversary he clapped his hands and demanded, "Entertain me!"

Scott glared at the man, still chewing on his hand, crossing his legs.

"Do it!" The Hood threatened his prisoner, eyes glowing yellow once again.

Scott flinched and opened his mouth.

"In limerick I'm cursed to speak,
Rhyme my words like a six foot freak.
By a man whose eyes glow yellow,
And he really likes to bellow.
For the love of God, please let me take a leak."

Sighing, the Hood pointed to a bucket in the corner of the room. He was always hospitable to his guests, even if they were held against their will.

Time snailed by once more. The Hood watched his prisoner warily. Scott, against his better judgement, opened his mouth one time.

"No, you fool!" The Hood yelled. There was nothing worse than having to babysit a babbling prisoner. He really should have thought this plan through better. But it was the chocolate hangover. He would always blame it on the chocolate hangover.

Really bugs ya, doesn't it? Scott thought, grinning smugly on the inside. Now you know how I feel.

Scott couldn't resist.

"How long will these limericks last?
Johnny'll come screaming "Avast!
You'll let Scotty go,
You moth eaten ho!"
But he'll say it with a touch more class."

Groaning, the Hood threw his hands up in the air in wild abandon.

It had taken the better part of two hours to hone in on Scott's location, but Thunderbird Five had worked its magic. John had packed up Mobile Control and initiated a maximum security lockdown on the Thunderbirds before trekking it into the jungle.

Currently, he was about fifty metres away from saving his big brother. Trying to scope out the severity of the situation, John activated his watch, allowing his father and Brains to listen in from Base, while he eavesdropped on the conversation between Scott and the Hood.

"No, you fool."

"How long will these limericks last?
Johnny'll come screaming Avast!
You'll let Scotty go,
You moth eaten ho!
But he'll say it with a touch more class."

Helpless, shocked, and slightly nauseated at the bad poetry, John conferred with his watch.

"What should I do?"

From the screen, Jeff shrugged. He had never encountered this kind of bizarre scenario before; he did not know what useful advice to impart on his son. The internal scientist in Brains was fascinated with the phenomenon of talking in limericks.

"He's not talking in limericks for the rest of his life," John determined, jaw jutting out aggressively. "He'll be unbearable to live with!"

"Perhaps you could, uh, respond without, uh, rhyming completely," Brains suggested. "If, uh, that doesn't work, bring, uh, Scott back to Base, and I will, uh, dissect his head to, uh, find and explain the cause."

John frowned, two fine eyebrows pulling together. "It'd better work."

Here goes nothing. Might as well humour Scott.

Charging his way into the prison chamber, John yelled, "Avast! Let my brother go, you moth eaten ho!"

Realising that the words themselves weren't very threatening, John drew his laser pistol out, training it over the Hood's heart, hand steady with practiced ease.

From where he was slouching, Scott looked up in wonderment. Grin splitting his face wide, Scott propelled himself into his brother's arms, practically glomping him.

"Oh, Johnny, oh, Johnny, oh I knew you would come,
With all those weapons and your mighty big gun.
I think I might cry,
Kiss you right in the eye,
But you'd hit me and that's not fun."

John offered Scott a small smile before rounding on the Hood.

"What the hell did you do to him?"

"I do not know," the Hood replied honestly, a prickly feeling creeping up his spine. He had never been honest before, and to be quite frank, he hated the way it made him feel. He'd have to tell a few hundred lies before he felt like himself again, in addition to causing more mayhem and destruction to further his own selfish plans.

John's cornflower blue eyes narrowed to slits, and he flicked his quiff out of his face. His expression, one set in stone, clearly read I don't believe you.

"Please," the Hood grovelled, bowing low. Another thing he wasn't used to doing, but begging the man from International Rescue to grant him one act of mercy was better than waiting for his prisoner to revert back to normal. All things considered, it was probably better for his self-preservation for the Hood to hand Scott back to his brother; Scott was the member who would most likely hurt his nemesis, maybe even to the brink of death, without batting an eyelid, without hesitating to think about his actions.

"Please, make it stop."

"What's in it for us?" John was merciful – the limericks were grating on his nerves as well, and he had only been subjected to listening to two of them – but he wasn't stupid. He wanted payment for his services.

"I will…" the Hood gritted out, holding up his hands in surrender, preparing to flee. "I will leave your organisation alone. I swear on my life."

John nodded decisively. It was good enough for him, even though he knew that he shouldn't have taken the Hood's word at face value. Still, he had more important things to worry about, like fixing his brother.

"Okay, Scotty, I really need you to be quiet for a few moments. If I remove my hand from your mouth, do you think you can manage that?"

Scott nodded and John moved his hand. It was time to see if Brains' theory worked. Thinking up the least nausea-inducing limerick he could think of, John began to speak.

"There once was a kid from Kent,
Who's dress code was quite bent.
He liked to wear pink,
This created a stink.
Super-califragilistic-expialidocious."

"Even though the sound of it is something quite atrocious."

The words slipped out before Scott could stop them. He quailed under John's ferocious glare.

"Scott! Please try!"

It did seem to be working though, John realised. From limericks, they had downgraded to just rhymes. He bet another ruined limerick could break the Hood's hold on his brother; John would just hate it if he had to wait until the power wore off instead, as would Scott. John knew Scott well enough to know that.

"There was a young girl from Japan,
Whose poetry never seemed to scan.
When I asked her why,
Because I try
Giraffe."

Silence. If that didn't work, John knew that Brains would follow through on dissecting Scott's head. Not something he would particularly want for his eldest brother.

"Scott? Say something that doesn't rhyme. Please don't let my random words have been in vain. I hate randomness, you know that!"

"Being random isn't everyone's cup of shredded seahorses." Scott grinned slowly as realisation dawned on him. "You fixed me! Johnny, you did it! I think I really could kiss you right now!"

"Please don't!" John recoiled in horror. "Man, this has been one weird rescue mission."

"You're telling me," Scott laughed, slinging an arm around John's lithe frame. "Now, hows about we pretend this never happened and head home? I have a chocolate Easter bunny with my name written all over it."