blinktwicebaby

[blinktwicebaby]

“Perhaps he wouldn’t return to the vault when he found Alan after all. Life in the wastelands was hard, but it was also possible.”

I’ve obsessed over this idea since I started posting my crossover fic on ao3 (the lies about vault life). I decided to practice my shading by throwing Scott into a vault suit. I’m actually pretty happy with how most of this one turned out!

[blinktwicebaby]

🥹

Over 83K words later, I feel proud. I love writing for thunderbirds, but boy do I need practice (though that can come later. For now I need a break!)

Stories were posted here

[blinktwicebaby]

Whumptober

Day 31- Therapy

Fandom- Thunderbirds

Also posted here

“You can say whatever you want in this room, John” Dr Monroe said, her fingers interlocked in her lap.

“Yes, thank you. I don’t really know what to say.”

“That’s okay. Have you ever used a therapy service before?”

“Yes. Years ago.”

“And how was it?”

“Didn’t work” John laughed bitterly, finally catching Dr Monroe’s eyes.

“What didn’t work about it?” She asked politely.

“I don’t like telling strangers about my problems.”

“I get that. I also know that you’re here right now because you HAVE to be here. That probably makes it harder.”

“Yes.” John broke the eye contact and scratched the back of his head, then brushed his nose with a finger. “I mean… we lose people sometimes. The number one rule in my line of work is that ‘you can’t save everyone’.”

Dr Monroe considered the man sitting in front of her.

“This was a very public loss. Have you ever lost someone closer to you? A family member?”

“Yes.”

“May I ask what your reaction was when she died?”

John’s lip twitched in the corners.

“It was a long time ago.”

“Okay.”

They sat in silence, Dr Monroe watching him and John avoiding looking at her. She nudged the tissue box closer and John took a couple. He blew his nose and dropped them into the bin at the edge of the coffee table.

“If you want to get anything out of your mandatory sessions, you’ll need to talk to me.”

“I don’t think I’ll get anything out of them” John replied breathily, looking up at the ceiling where a dream-catcher was hanging behind the doctor.

“Maybe, maybe not. If you don’t try though, it just seems like wasted time.”

John couldn’t suppress his mild laugh and he glanced into the Doctors eyes again, only for a moment.

“I don’t think I did anything wrong.”

“That’s a good start… the news said the accident was preventable, but not for your efforts. You boys seemed to have done everything you could.”

“We did. I did, anyway.”

“You seem to have a healthy relationship with your family, and the casualties of your work don’t seem to bother you.”

“They do, but we have to move on.” John crossed his arms and leaned back on the couch.

“Moving on gets us to tomorrow.”

* * *

“Have you done any therapy sessions before, Gordon?”

“Nope, my brains as healthy as a horse’s” Gordon replied cheerfully, taking a mint from the bowl on the table. He chewed it loudly, a little grossly.

“Even healthy people come to therapy. There are lots of reasons someone might come to see me.”

“I can think of a dozen reasons to come see you” Gordon said smoothly, leaning on the arm of the couch. Dr Monroe’s lips pressed together. He was very different to the first Tracy.

“How do you feel about being here mandatorily?”

“Being forced to spend an hour with you? I don’t see the problem in that at all.”

“Is that how you’d like to fill your sessions, Gordon?” Dr Monroe asked, his charm already becoming somewhat annoying. He was half her age and she wasn’t interested. She doubted he was either.

“I suppose it does get a bit repetative” Gordon laughed, taking a tissue from the box next to the mints. He started folding it, his hands sufficiently distracted.

“How did you feel after the incident?”

“It was a bit much, but nothing scares me, baby.”

“I understand you pilot Thunderbird 4? You must have seen a lot from the water.”

His fingers paused on the tissue. Had she found a crack?

His fingers kept moving after a moment, but they seemed more precise, more focused.

“I saw a lot. I had prime seats for the explosion…” he laughed while he spoke, but there was a hidden hurt in his voice that made Dr Monroe’s heart pinch.

“There were bodies. It was black from the smoke, and then bodies started falling into the water all around Thunderbird 4. It was raining corpses.”

“That sounds terrifying, Gordon” Dr Monroe said, shaking her head slowly.

“It was.” His fingers finished with the tissue and he placed the little origami fish deliberately on the table. “They were all I could see… I thought one of them-”

Gordon blew air slowly out his mouth. The corners of his lip curved upwards, the fake smile he’d worn at the start of the session returning. “One of them looked like Alan, but of course it wasn’t him. He was safe in Thunderbird 3.”

“Do you relate many of the people you see in your work to family members?”

“Sometimes… it’s not always family though. Or the people I help. You kind of look like my future girlfriend.”

* * *

“I went to therapy when I was a kid after my Mom died. We were in an avalanche and… well, I already did my time for that.”

“Did your time? Do you not want to be here?”

“No- no, it’s not that! I don’t mind being here, and who knows, maybe it’ll be good for me. Maybe I need it, but I guess I won’t know until I try it.”

“That’s a healthy way to look at it. Very positive.”

“I’m not against it, and I think it worked last time because I feel like I’ve come to terms with my mom dying, and it kind of but not really being my fault… you know, instead of it being completely my fault, but this time it MIGHT have been my fault, but I don’t- think- it was?”

“What makes you think this incident might have been your fault?” Dr Monroe asked, throwing his word choices back at him.

“My job was to carry the rig into space when everyone was away from it but I didn’t even get that far. I was helping Virgil- I mean, Thunderbird 2- and we were pulling apart the top of the towers so Scott-” he sighed at his idiocy, “I mean Thunderbird 1-, could pull them out through the top. I pulled out the tower that… you know.”

He was fidgeting with his hands unsurely. He gave Dr Monroe the idea that he had a lot of energy, that sitting down was as natural to him as breakdancing was to bears. She held the tissues out to him and he took one, tearing it absently into tiny pieces with his fingers.

“Is this working?” He asked.

“Do you think it’s working?”

“I don’t know.”

* * *

“Do you mind if I drink this in here?” Virgil asked, a transparent plastic bottle in his hand.

“Depends, is there any liquor in there?”

“No” Virgil laughed, “I don’t drink.”

“What is it?”

“Protein shake. It’s good for working out.”

“Do you mean before or after a work out?”

“Right now? Both.”

Dr Monroe sized him up. This one had muscles on muscles, and even though he’d only seen 4 out of the 5 Tracys, he was willing to bet that this one was the biggest out of all of them.

“Do you usually work out this much?”

“Well I have a lot more free time at the moment, now that international rescue is on ‘temporary leave.’” He rolled his eyes at the last two words then took a sip of his white, tasteless protein shake, “I usually work out in the morning and the afternoon, but, you know. I have all this free time, I should put it towards being stronger.”

“What will being stronger help you achieve?”

“I’ll be able to help more people.”

“Do you think your brothers are strong enough to help people?”

“Yeah” he laughed, “of course!”

“But you don’t think you are?”

Virgil’s gaze dropped and he sighed.

“It’s not like that. I know I’m strong. I’m the strongest out of all of them. It’s just…”

Dr Monroe waited for him to continue, but the rest of his sentence fizzled out of existence.

“Can I have one of those please?”

Dr Monroe picked up the tissue box and leaned it towards Virgil. He took one and wiped moisture off his bottle, then dumped the damp mess into the bin next to the table.

“So you have to be strong to pilot Thunderbird 2?” Dr Monroe asked.

“No, most people at any size could manage. Pilotings actually the easy part of the job.”

“What’s the hardest part?”

Virgil drank the last of his shake and swirled the dregs of wet powder at the bottom.

“Messing up.”

“Do you think you messed up?”

“We all messed up” Virgil muttered bitterly.

“How?”

“We didn’t get them out in time.”

“But you tried to.”

“Yes. And we failed.”

“Would being stronger have changed that?”

“Yes. No? I don’t know.”

* * *

Scott’s hands locked behind the back of his head, his elbows pointing out like a bird of prey. His cheeks were partially red and his eyes were bloodshot and slightly puffy from either waking up before his body was ready, or from crying not too long before the session.

“There were so many people. They looked up and saw Thunderbird 1… saw me… and they thought they were safe.”

“How did you feel, looking down and seeing their eyes on you.”

“It feels like I tricked them.”

“But you didn’t.”

His dishevelled hair showed remnants of gel, but it was flat in some areas and sticking up in others. His blue shirt was wrinkled and there was a small black stain under the pocket that might have been from a broken pen. He appeared to be the most rustled out of all of them, but at the same time he was somehow the most well put together.

“I didn’t mean to trick them. It feels cruel. Felt cruel?”

“Both work.”

“Right.”

“Is there any scenario where you wouldn’t go to help them?”

“No! I’d go every single time.”

“And how would the outcome change if you got a do-over?”

“Everything would be different. I’d go sooner, way before the explosion.”

“But you wouldn’t. John sent the call through and you all left straight away. There is no room for sooner.”

The red spread from Scott’s cheeks and became more vibrant, infecting his ears, forehead and chin. His lips parted and air pushed between them forcefully, his eyes closing from the effort. Tears welled up in the corners and dropped slowly down his cheeks. His hands fell by his sides, curled over the couch cushion fabric. He could feel snot pooling under his nose and wiped it away with the back of his hand. Dr Monroe nudged the box of tissues forward and Scott glanced at it.

“If I couldn’t get there sooner, it means the mission was doomed from the start. We’d fail every. Single. Time.”

“So those deaths were inevitable.”

“No. There is ALWAYS a way.”

“And what’s a way that might have worked here?”

“I-” tears dripped down his neck and into the collar of his shirt, “I could have…”

The fat part of his palms pushed into his eye sockets and rolled around. He’d thought of dozens of ways they could have approached the situation, but now he was supposed to share them, the errors in them all came to the forefront of his brain. Scott sighed without opening his mouth.

“211. We failed to save 211 lives.”

He wiped his palms across his eyes and curled them in his lap. He didn’t want to stain Dr Monroe’s couch.

“That’s a lot of people. How might you have saved them all?”

“I… I don’t know.”

He was still staring blankly at the tissue box, possibly even past it.

“You couldn’t.”

His lip quivered.

“I couldn’t.”

“My job is to help you live with the fact.”

“How do I-” the rest of his sentence was lost in sobs. He buried his face in his hands and leaned forward, his whole back arching from uncontrollable spasms. Dr Monroe had seen every type of patient on that couch, and this type of hard crying was 1 in every 10.

She left him to cry, and he went on for most of the session. That was fine too.

“Sorry” he said, wiping his hands all around his face. He rested his cheek in one of them and caught Dr Monroe’s warm eyes. “I don’t know how to get past this one. You can’t save everyone, but we always save someone.”

“Are you going to quit?”

“What? No!”

“What if you don’t save anyone next time either?”

“I will. I will do everything I can to save them next time!”

“You didn’t last time?”

“Of course I did.”

“But the circumstances were too dire.”

“They were too dire” Scott repeated in agreement. “I couldn’t save them, because the circumstances were too dire. I tried my best, it just wasn’t enough.”

Ugh. He’d been so close.

“What are you going to do with your time off?” Dr Monroe asked, changing the subject.

“Avoid the media, avoid the internet.”

“That’s what your bosses suggested. I mean what are you hoping to do while you’re at home.”

The corners of his mouth twitched.

“I’ll spend time with my brothers. They’re stuck at home too.”

“What will you do with them?”

The barely-there smile disappeared like a trick of the light. Had it ever been there in the first place?

“They aren’t doing well at home. I don’t think I’m supposed to tell you that, but I’m the one trying to keep them, well, themselves. It’s really hard.

John’s taking it the worst. He cries the most out of all of us. Gordon neglected his fish. It died and he buried it on the beach with a cross and everything. He cried in the sand until he passed out and I had to carry him in. Alan’s so quiet I never know where he is. I found him crying in a cupboard this morning, completely silent. I opened it to get a tea-towel, I didn’t know he was even in there! And Virgil… he works himself into exhaustion. He wakes up crying and doesn’t stop until he starts moving again. He went for a run yesterday and didn’t come back. I found him passed out in some bushes halfway around the island. He just… fell asleep, while running! He’s going to hurt himself really badly.

Im just… trying to get them through the day.”

Dr Monroe was taken aback.

“That sounds tiring. Does anyone look after you?”

Scott shook his head and took a few tissues from the box on the table. He wiped away the mess on his face and his hands and dropped them in the bin.

“We all failed 211 people. They think I handle it better than they do… but I just hide it better.”

[blinktwicebaby]

Whumptober

Day 21- tattoo gun

Fandom: thunderbirds

Also posted on ao3 here

Virgil’s fingers rested on Alan’s shoulder and his thumb stuck out, his whole hand resting under his pen drawing in an ‘L’.

“This is a really bad idea” he sighed to himself, his other hand holding the tattoo gun to attention.

“Just do it” Alan muttered tiredly, “if Dad sees it I’ll tell him that someone else did it.”

Virgil knew that a plan like that would fail the moment their Dad saw the details in the drawing. He’d paid for Virgil to go to art school since the age of 5 and would see through a lie like that instantly. He knew Virgil’s art. He’d pick his painting out of dozens of others without a second thought and be correct every time, and even though this one was more jagged and on someone’s skin, he’d know.

He might have told Alan as much, but then he might actually convince him not to go through with it. He knew how much Alan needed it, so he kept quiet.

Alan’s shoulder was small, which wasn’t strange considering he was only 16 years old. Despite the fact, he was still surprised by how big the area he was marking actually was.

With a thirteen year age gap, he’d spent most of his time with Alan acting as a secondary caregiver, and even then his responsibilities weren’t sought often when Alan was very young. Their mother was the type of person who loved every one of her children and wanted to be with all of them at every second. She loved raising her sons, and with the addition of Alan her attitude didn’t change. She made time for every single one of them and expected nothing in return, even with a newborn in tow. There was never any jealousy or a fight for her attention.

Of course, after she died the rest of the family had to step up to some extent. They all pitched in with Alan, but he was 6 years old when she died. He didn’t need the intimacies demanded by a very young child and acted mostly independently. He never asked for help with anything, and for the most part they could brush him off without incident.

There were those few times when they told him to go away, often when they were playing video games. Virgil was guilty of pointing him out of the room during a heated digital race with John, and when John’s car nudged his he threw the controller at the wall and rounded on Alan. It was entirely unfair, and far too unhinged, but it worked to get rid of the minor annoyance. He’d been 19 when he did that, and now that he thought about it he realised that it had been the last time Alan ever asked to play a video game with him.

Virgil always thought his youngest brother just preferred single player games, that he was introverted and liked being alone. Slowly tracing a needle along the line he’d drawn on Alan’s shoulder, he knew that it wasn’t the truth.

Alan’s later childhood and pre-teen life had been lonely too. He was usually confined to the island, cracking jokes on his school’s live feed wherever he could. He had friends, and he even got to see them sometimes. Back then, Virgil knew that his brother passed as ‘cool’ in his own way, back at a time when those arbitrary things actually mattered. He never noticed when Alan hit a growth spurt except on a few occasions when he went away for a long time and came back. Without his knowledge or permission, Alan became broader. Taller. Older.

Without his help, Alan had found his own way through life. He’d grown in every way and among other things found the world of fitness. He had the awkward mini-muscles that some teenagers managed to shake just before they became adults, where his arms ballooned from his workouts but the rest of his body hadn’t managed to catch up yet. His back was broad and looked good, which was part of the reason why Virgil had agreed to do it in the first place. When had Alan gotten THIS big? Not just his muscles, but his height, his maturity, his rebellion?

“Does it hurt?” Virgil asked, his tattoo gun tracing the blue pen line slowly, stabbing through to the dermal layer just above the lymphatic one. He wiped the excess ink away, beads of blood coming away with it.

“A little bit” Alan muttered clearly.

He didn’t have any tattoos of his own. As far as he knew, Alan was the first one in their family lineage to get one. It wasn’t that they were against the idea of tattoos, but something so permenant just couldn’t be trusted. It was a deep belief in their family that nothing was permenant, and weren’t the accidents they attended proof of that? Wasn’t the initial cataclysm that lead to International rescue’s procession the reinforcement they needed to prove the fact?

It defied everything they stood for. Alan would keep aging. He’d change completely in 5, 10, 20 years, but the tattoo would still be there. Even if he lived 100 more years (which was scarily possible,) the tattoo would still be there even if the house, international rescue and everyone else within it wasn’t.

Virgil gently stretched Alan’s skin and went over a black line again. He’d only spent a month practising tattoo work, and never on someone’s real skin. It had been a mere art project, a morbid piece that was on display for the next 12 weeks at a museum’s function. The theme was ‘something new’, and Virgil had gone straight for the modern state of the streets, the new age of poverty. The irony of course was in how expensive the piece had been and how art in itself contributed to suburban decline, but the directors seemed happy with the tatted up faux skin stretched around a trash can and hey, art was subjective.

The buzzing of the tattoo gun had turned into white noise in that month. No one noticed it after a few days, and no one noticed it now even though his project was long finished. Alan hadn’t been worried about anyone noticing him. It was a bit sad, actually- the expectation that he flew so far under the radar that no one noticed him even when he was doing something wrong (and at his age, this was very wrong.)

His lines were beautiful and clean, the thin outline traced exactly as he’d intended it. There wasn’t any blue pen showing through, and there was no need to go over any part of it again.

He dipped the tattoo gun in and out of some water then wiped it down. He moved it over to the cleanser and dipped it again. He saw Alan’s head bent forward, his hair falling into his eyes. He could only just see his lips pressed together in a natural pout, closer to a frown than a smile. His hands were resting almost shyly in his lap.

He undid the gun’s screw and let the needle fall out. He ripped open the packet he had next to him and sized up the colour needle. 6 tiny points poking from the end of it.

He dropped it into place in the tattoo gun and hooked it onto the vibration rotary. He rescrewed it in place, thinking vaguely of the newer models he could have bought. He’d gone for the more traditional method for his project because it injected old and new together, which seemed more symbolic, even though it didn’t make a difference to how the art piece looked. Newer tattoo guns could be switched out much easier with a push of a button and a twist of the handle, all of the needles enclosed safely in a translucent holder. Maybe they even hurt less.

He dipped the end of his 6 needles into the red ink a few times. This had been his favourite part in his project, a cathartic version of an adult colouring book where every colour came together in ways pencils and paints couldn’t. Of course, it was going to be different when he was putting it on something that could move, but he felt sure that the feeling was going to be the same.

“Ready?” He asked again, holding the tip of the gun over Alan’s shoulder.

“M’hm” he replied non-commitally.

Virgil’s heart panged in sympathy and he depressed the foot pedal. When had Alan become so apathetic? The vibration buzzed like a hornet and he placed the needles in the centre of the tattoo outline.

Alan flinched and made a noise through his teeth, the needle tips sliding downward and tapering the colour off in an ugly tiny streak. Virgil took his foot off the pedal and hovered his gun.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. Hurts more than the outline” Alan explained.

When had his voice gotten deeper? Virgil went back in with the red in the same spot and moved it steadily across his youngest brother’s skin. He could feel Alan’s muscles rippling under his fingers, tensing as he tried not to move again.

His teeth grit together, the corners of his lips twitching up and down as he grimaced. His breathing felt deliberate, slow, even.

“Apparently white hurts the most” Virgil said conversationally, “but red comes second. Most of the the forums I read said that.”

“It’s fine.”

Alan’s head swivelled on his neck at random as he thought. He’d been sitting for over an hour already, and Virgil couldn’t help but notice the tiny movements of his hair shifting and stopping. He could see that Alan’s eyes were open now, though his irises were only half visible between his lids. Whatever he was thinking, Virgil knew that it was grim, and considering the tattoo he’d asked for it was only appropriate.

It seemed wrong to think any happy thoughts. It was a collective misery reserved only for the pair of them, and once Virgil’s work was done he’d be excluded from the misery too, allowed to think of good things again. Alan wouldn’t be though, and Virgil found himself reconsidering the tattoo again. Every time he saught it out, he’d be reminded. Every time someone else pointed it out to him, he’d remember what happened.

Virgil couldn’t help but smirk. How stupid to reconsider now when it was already permenant on his skin. He could have found a laser and forced Alan under it a few times until it faded away for good, but that would lead to problems of its own.

“Reds done” Virgil said some time later. Then again, “you okay?”

Alan rolled his shoulder and grunted.

“Feeling a little woozy.”

Virgil put the gun down and retrieved a can of coke from the nearby mini fridge, the one used exclusively for drinks. He cracked the can and passed it to Alan, who took it and downed half of it in one go.

Virgil dumped the red ink in the bin by his foot, changed his gloves and replaced the needle with a fresh one, he dipped it into the purple and relaxed it in his hand on the table, waiting for Alan to give the go ahead.

Alan held the can in both hands in his lap and shifted back into position, his shoulder turned slightly in a way that it had been in for so long that the usually uncomfortable position was now comfortable.

“Okay” he said.

Virgil placed his free hand against Alan’s shoulder and parted the skin gently. He placed the needles against a part of the tattoo where Alan’s natural skin was still showing through and depressed his foot on the pedal. The buzz sounded and he pressed the tips in, injecting purple ink close to the red.

He could feel Alan’s breathing and was trying to stay in rhythm with it, but his inhales had become long, his exhales short.

Virgil watched Alan’s profile and found him blinking rapidly, like he was holding back tears. It would also explain the heavy breathing.

But then he dropped the can on the ground, spilling brown liquid onto the hardwood floor. Virgil had a second to prop his gun back onto the table and catch Alan as he listed forward. He lowered him down and slipped the cushion from the seat under his head. He dumped paper towels onto the coke in the spots closest to Alan and kneeled beside him. His fingers were gently tapping the side of Alan’s head beside his eyes. Relief flooded him when Alan turned his head slightly to look at them and he stopped tapping.

“We can leave it for now” Virgil said, placing a hand gently on his back underneath the tattoo and reaching to his table with the other. He grabbed his ethanol bottle and squeezed it over the tattoo, sufficiently wetting it. He grabbed a fresh paper towel and wiped the wetness away in one smooth motion, convinced for a moment that the whole thing would wipe away.

“I want it done” Alan murmured. He readjusted himself into a more comfortable position down there on the floor, his shoulder pointed towards Virgil. Some of the ethanol dripped down his chest and settled in his pecs, but it didn’t seem to bother him. The spilled coke didn’t bother him as it seeped into one of his track pant’s legs around the knee. His eyes were fully open, staring straight ahead in determination.

Virgil sighed and tested a few positions down there on the floor that might work. His art project had been done entirely on a table and this was new territory for him. He was tempted once again to put his foot down, to yell Alan out of the room and be unfair and unhinged, but he couldn’t do that to him now. What relationship did they really have with each other? Virgil felt naive, thinking that the experience was bringing them closer together. The secrecy, the effort, the result. All of it had to mean something.

He settled for sitting with one of his legs over Alan’s body, the other curled and pressed against his back. He brought the gun down and put the foot pedal under the foot over Alan’s midsection, the gun once again hovering over his art. It was a bit awkward to push the pedal, but once his foot was on it, it was just as hard to take it off again.

He leaned down and rested his free arm at the edge of Alan’s side and held his shoulder like another sketchbook. He pressed the purple ink back onto Alan’s skin and worked on his piece, stealing periodic glances at Alan’s face to make sure he was still awake.

He was so lost in what he was doing and so focused on making sure Alan was still blinking that he didn’t even notice the studio door open and close again.

“What are you doing?” Scott asked somewhat petulantly. He scaled down the few steps with ease and rounded the table to find Virgil straddling Alan with one leg and pressing a buzzing tattoo gun to his shoulder.

“VIRGIL, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING!?” He demanded, suddenly more urgent.

Virgil lifted the gun and awkwardly took his foot off the pedal. He slipped the gun onto the table and stood up, Alan on the ground between his legs peering up at their superior around him.

“I asked him to!” Alan said angrily. He propped himself up onto one arm to give their commander a nasty look. Virgil stepped off him to the side closer to his equipment and decided that they could hash this out themselves while he tidied up the coke properly.

Alan got to his own feet and wavered, his head still spinning. He grabbed absently for Virgil and found his tee shirt, his fingers holding it in a deathgrip. Virgil rounded and slipped his arm around Alan’s waist. The younger held his brow in the hand not grabbing onto Virgil for dear life and shook the fatigue away. Virgil looked between Alan and Scott, the older standing with his arms crossed and ready to berate them.

“That better not be real” Scott muttered. He went over to Alan and twisted his shoulder upward. Alan grunted, then screamed when Scott rubbed the coloured section.

“Dads not going to be happy.”

Alan shoved Scott away visciously, his teeth bared. He balled his fists and stepped at Scott, his hands coming up to hit the older brother.

“You asshole” he said, beating Scott on the chest with both hands, “you self serving ASSHOLE! If you tell Dad I will never speak to you again.”

Virgil’s heart leapt uncomfortably because he believed it.

Scott scoffed, staring at Alan like he’d never seen him before.

“Why would you do something so stupid, Alan. And YOU-” He said, towering over Virgil, “Him I could see doing this… but you helping him do it!? How could you be so idiotic?”

“It’s his body, it’s his choice” Virgil said simply, unsurely.

“He’s 16!”

“He needs it” Virgil said more confidently, “he asked me and I’m doing it. It’s almost done anyway, and we can’t undo it.”

Scott planted his face in his hands and dragged them down, peering at his idiot brothers over his fingers. He shook his head.

“I’m telling Dad” he muttered. He turned around and made his way back to the door.

Something snapped in Alan. He ran forward and pushed Scott violently that he almost went down.

“JUST LET ME HAVE THIS ONE. THING.” he yelled, and this time there was no mistaking that he was crying.

Scott turned gravely, eyes under angry brows watching Alan. Unreasonable little Alan who was always going to be the little brother, the baby, the least adult, incapable of making his own decisions because he didn’t know what was good for him yet. He was only 16.

Scott’s memories of being 16 were similar to those of being 30. Being the oldest, he’d aged without the knowledge of anyone but his parents. To his brothers he’d always been ‘the oldest’, and he always would be. He knew what was best because he’d already been their age and made their mistakes. He had foresight that they simply didn’t, and he knew the secret formula that would make everything alright in the end. Sure, telling Dad seemed like an asshole move right now, but they’d see in time that it was the right thing to do.

He closed his eyes and turned away from Alan, making his way out the door. He left it open and Alan slammed it after him with such ferocity that it shook the doorframe. Shaking and angry, he lay back down on the floor in his comfy position, his leg a little bit more forward since the coke puddle was gone. Virgil hesitantly draped the pedal’s line over Alan’s midsection and got back into his own position, his foot joining the pedal draped over Alan’s quivering body. He leaned in and put the tattoo gun in position, the top of it now a bright white on only 3 needles. The section he was about to do needed to be vibrant.

He continued filling in Alan’s tattoo for hours, checking in on him between each colour change. He kept him updated on the process, receiving an affirming noise each time. After 8 hours since they’d started, he let Alan know that the last blue was on a wide set of 8 spaced shading needles.

He touched the shade to his littlest brother’s skin and received a loud grunt as a result. He’d been waiting for their Dad to burst in the whole time, and that was the moment when he finally did.

Jeff opened the door calmly and tred down the stairs. Virgil gave him an acknowledging glance and brushed the buzzing gun up in careful streaks along Alan’s skin. Alan’s head didn’t move at all and Virgil couldn’t help but notice that his muscles were tense again, the way they had been when he’d started putting red.

“Let me see” Jeff said, crouching beside Virgil. His tone was unreadable, bordering on either understanding or fury. Alan’s chin twitched further into the cushion, scared to look up at his Dad. Jeff sighed and stood up, towering over them with his arms crossed. Virgil only had a few lines to finish, so he kept going. They could all see there was no point in stopping.

Jeff retreated to the far wall and watched them. Virgil went slowly, trying to delay the inevitable.

When his details were finished, he propped the gun silently on the table and reached over Alan to grab the pedal. He stole glances at Jeff, but his expression was still unreadable. He put the pedal next to the gun and tapped Alan on the arm.

“Come on buddy, it’s finished.”

Alan sat up dazedly, still scared to look in Jeff’s direction. He looked up at Virgil for guidance, but the only guidance he could give was the aftercare advice he’d found online.

He sprayed more ethanol down the fresh tattoo and wiped it away in one last smooth motion.

“Have a look, then I’ll put some tattoo balm on it and wrap it up.” He gestured towards the mirror next to the fridge and Alan got up with a waver to walk tentatively over to it.

The details were exquisite. The snowy mountain looked like it would be cold to the touch, if not for the detail of a red and purple heart somewhere at base of it. That part didn’t have to look real because in Alan’s mind it wasn’t. How could it be when his mom had died there, when he had almost died there?

Jeff appeared beside him and looked at the tattoos reflection. Alan’s eyes watered while he took in what he was seeing, his Dad’s presence less imposing than it had been minutes before. Jeff put his arm around Alan, squeezed his opposite shoulder affectionately, and kissed his head next to his eye. He gave one last affirming squeeze before walking back towards the door.

“Looks good” he said when he passed Virgil.

Virgil watched him go then got back to clearing away his things, his breath escaping him without the realisation that he’d been holding it.

When Alan came back to the table Virgil dabbed a thick layer of tattoo balm over his work and pressed cling wrap tight against his skin. He taped the border with medical tape in the hopes it would hold for a few hours.

“Have a shower in 2 hours but don’t use soap on it. Put this balm on it starting from tomorrow afternoon and use it sparingly. Apply once or twice a day for two weeks. I can do touch ups after that. You got it?”

“Yeah. Thank you Virgil” he said.

Virgil had expected a bigger scene, perhaps a big hug with dramatic declarations that everything would be different from now on, that he was so grateful to him for the thing he’d done. At the very least, he thought that the chasm caused by their age gap was bridged and they’d be closer in someway. Spiritually, mentally, evidence of SOME new feeling of endearment.

Instead he just watched his littlest brother put his shirt back on and jump up the stairs, probably to go to his room.

[blinktwicebaby]

oh bruce you old softie

[blinktwicebaby]

Whumptober 2024

Day 18- unreliable narrator

Fandom: thunderbirds

[blinktwicebaby]

My anxiety is too bad to participate in something like this, but it sounds like fun :)

TAG Team Secret Santa 2024

Well, that was a definite yes, so here we go!

What is Tag Team Secret Santa?

Just like normal Secret Santa, just for Thunderbirds fans!

Secret Santa is where the people involved give and receive gifts without knowing who they’re giving a gift to or receiving a gift from.

In the case of the fandom… no, we don’t expect you to go out and buy something for a perfect stranger! Instead, you simply create something to give to the other person. Most commonly this is fic or art but any form of media is welcome! Look at previous years for some examples!

But how do I know what to create?

Do not worry! We don’t expect you to go in blind. Anyone who wants to be involved needs to send in three prompts of things they would like to receive. Have a look at previous years for ideas on what sort of prompts to send in. These prompts will then be shuffled and sent out to participants… so anyone who sent in three prompts will receive three prompts to use as a guide of what to create. On Christmas Day the Secret Santa team will post all of the creations for everyone to see.

In summary…

1) Send in three Thunderbirds related prompts to this Tumblr account via chat.

2) This Tumblr account will send you three prompts in return when the prompts are released.

3) With the three prompts this Tumblr has sent to you, you create something that fulfills the prompts, one, two or all, whether it be fic or art. (You don't have to answer all the prompts, just one. If you feel inspired to answer more than one, go for it. We only ask for three so you have a variety to choose from)

4) Ask this Tumblr what email to send your completed creations to and send them in.

5) Sit back, relax, wait for Christmas where both your requested prompts and your completed prompts will be posted for everyone to enjoy!

Dates

Looking at times, here are some dates:

TSS starts today, so put your thinking caps on.

We need your prompts by no later than 25 October. We will get back to you shortly after that with your gift prompts.

Deadline for completed creations will be 16 December - please contact us if you don’t think you can make it but give it your best shot.

Posting of gifts will start on Christmas day.

Any questions, send an ask or a message to this Tumblr.

But most of all, don’t forget to have some fun!

[blinktwicebaby]

If you make Gordon, please let him be a dumb little goldfish 🧡

Scott Tracy (shapeshifter) Commission for the dear @the-original-sineater ❤️❤️Thank you!!

[blinktwicebaby]

Thunderfam!

If you want a good laugh then I highly recommend watching this video if you havn't already.

And if you have then I highly recommend watching it again.

This is hilarious!🤣

I love it!💕

[blinktwicebaby]

Whumptober 2024

Day 6- unhealthy coping mechanisms

Fandom- thunderbirds

Also posted on ao3 here :)

* *

Drowning was a natural system, one that every animal on the planet was susceptible to in some way. Even whales gave up at the end of their lives and fell to the bottom of the ocean, water flooding their massive bodies and stopping them from going on anymore.

Sometimes land animals lost their way and fell into the water, screaming and thrashing until their tired bodies couldn’t keep their head above the water. They gave up because they had to, sometimes with hours of panic before their airways were blocked with water for the final time.

Sometimes they just went down too deep and couldn’t come up again in time to take a breath, doomed to their watery grave with only a couple of minutes at most with the certainty that they were going to drown.

Of course it wasn’t entirely grim. Other creatures in the water took the provided nutrients and they got to live on, at least until the water eventually took them too. From huge sharks to the tiniest microbes, the creatures in the water always won.

Gordon had seen three people drown.

He’d seen them struggling for their last gasps for air, taking in water where they’d desperately needed oxygen.

He’d seen the hope in their eyes dwindle to terror and fade to a blank, dead stare void of whatever identity they might have once had.

It happened twice in his stingray years; the first was a man named Thomas Uggins who tried to detonate a bomb underneath a cruise ship. They were supposed to bring him on board and arrest him, but he chose to drown himself instead of face the music. He died with a smile on his face that flittered almost immediately because of the current, his lifeless body drifting like a plastic bag.

The second was a teenaged boy barely younger than Gordon at the time, Gregory Axle, who’d fallen off a boat and been hit by the propeller. It cut partway into his neck and he bled out before Gordon’s team could reach him. He’d been face down in the water, the red still streaming from him. If he’d just managed to get his mouth out of the ocean, even a little bit, he’d have lived.

Neither of those had been a result of negligence, and there were plenty of brain damaged people in the world to prove the fatality of a life that a near drowning could inflict. It seemed that in some instances, death really was the much kinder alternative.

That’s what Gordon told himself at least. The sanctity of his work counted in lives opposed to livelihoods.

What about the crippling debts some families faced after emergency medical interference? Would they have preferred their loved ones deaths? Gordon didn’t think there was anything wrong with a family regretting a life, or mourning the person they’d once loved. Was it worse to live with the fact that he knew he was the one doing it to them?

Of course, most of the people he’d ever saved went home with a bad cough or a sore throat, at worst uncontrollable vomiting. Worse than the few who’d drowned, he also remembered the names of those few he’d doomed to new, harder lives.

Harriett Field. A girl who was pushed from her friend’s boat when she was 8. They’d abandoned her in the water and Stingray happened upon her by coincidence. Gordon did an hour and a half of CPR before she was put on oxygen in the ambulance, and she was still alive. She lost all conscious mobility in her limbs and was fed through a tube, and that was because of Gordon.

Johnathon Sanders. He’d had an allergic reaction while working on an electricity rig and Stingray was called out urgently. Gordon pulled him from the water, his lips purple and twice the size of his head, and given him an epipen. Water had trickled into his lungs and now he couldn’t breathe without assistance from a machine that cost thousands of dollars a month to run.

Anthony Pearson. He broke his back when his sail knocked him into the water so violently that he shattered his hips. He was still adjusting to a life without legs or function in his right arm two years later.

Felix Sellerman. Ahndeep Singh. Hillary Bethany Phillips. Roger Biller. Nancy Derwent. All of them were still adjusting to their new lives. Did they wish they’d drowned, or did they still know how valuable they were?

No. Even with the cost, the loss of limbs, the crippling medical situationships, it was better to be alive than whatever the condition of drowning made them.

The third person he’d seen drown had been a woman, Amanda Sorelli. He said she was a woman, but she’d only been 19.

He dived into the family’s 25 metre pool the next morning and ran his usual practise; a 1km warmup followed by intensive. The sun was peeking over the horizon, the orange and pink sky blotted with grey clouds that wouldn’t reach the island for hours.

His intensive swim consisted of all 4 strokes on repeat. Where his focus was usually on form, he decided that he was well overdue for strength training. Every recovery was fast, and every push was hard.

Kick off, six butterfly kicks, freestyle, stop at the other end. 20 laps, 30 seconds from one end to the other per lap. Kick off, split stroke, breaststroke, 50 metres with a turn, 20 times. Kick off, butterfly, one breath per lap. Kick off on his back, 6 butterfly kicks, lowest number of arm rotations per lap, if he didn’t match it or beat it he added two more laps.

He didn’t time his swims unless the pacer clock was needed. What he didn’t have was a real clock to tell him how long he’d been in the pool for.

The rain started tinkling down on him lightly, completely unnoticed. When it pelted down, disturbing the water and blowing light waves, he noticed but kept going. It was nothing compared to the ocean conditions he’d endured hundreds of times before. Not even the thunder brought him out. It eventually disappeared, fading into the background without his notice.

Freestyle. Two laps without breathing. Three laps. Four- his head started spinning partway through the fourth lap on his five lap pace and he threw his arm over the lane rope dividing him from the rest of the pool- the zone his brothers dubbed ‘the fun part’. His mouth didn’t quite clear the water when he took in a huge gulp of air and it delved into his lungs mixed with chlorinated pool water, piercing his lungs without any warning.

He curled into the lane rope and coughed harshly, his lungs hacking up the water with difficulty. He held onto the lane rope for dear life. When he finally recovered, his cheek was touching the water, his mouth sucking in air only a centimetre above it. He thought briefly of Harriet Field, brain dead but alive. She was quickly dismissed for Amanda Sorelli, who was simply dead.

“There’s a mission off Italy” someone called from the diving block.

Gordon kicked his legs lazily underneath him, hands still firmly on the lane rope. He’d had a go at everyone in his family at some point for doing the same, but this was different.

His chest felt frozen, like he’d been sitting outside on a freezing night. He could feel heat coming off his face and he was still heaving from the near drowning he’d given himself. It took him a moment to register what Alan had said and he shook the water from his hair. It probably didn’t improve his hearing at all, but it had become such a habit that he was convinced that it did.

“A mission?” He asked monotonously.

“Yeah, off Italy.”

Alan was sitting on the diving block with his bare feet hovering above the water kicking back and forth, a towel draped around his shoulders. The rain had reduced to a light spray that made his hair shine, but didn’t penetrate it to the roots.

“I’ll be in Thunderbird 2 in 2 minutes.”

“Scott’s taking this one” Alan said quickly, his lips curled into his mouth as he anticipated Gordon’s reaction.

As expected, he kicked his way to the diving block with venom in his eyes. He tried to pull himself out of the water, but immediately he fell back in with a splash.

He grabbed the rope instead and stared up at Alan with that same nasty look, completely ignoring the fact that his arms had just given out on him.

“He’s taking Thunderbird 4?”

“It’s an underwater rescue, so yeah.”

“Why didn’t anyone tell me!?”

He sounded angry, but more than that he sounded hurt.

“You’ve been out here all day. Virgil saw you jump in before 5:30 this morning.”

“And!?”

“You’ve been swimming for 12 hours.”

Ah.

His eyes dropped shamedly and his mouth went under the water. Tiny ripples moved under his nose with every breath and his muscles started screaming at him for stopping. He grunted, the sound muted into bubbles.

“Come on” Alan said, reaching his arm down towards Gordon.

Defeated, Gordon took the hand and let Alan pull him up out of the water. He sat on the edge and Alan threw the towel from his shoulders around Gordon’s.

He felt heavy out of the water. With every effort, he lifted his legs and swivelled around so he was sitting on the dry side. Alan tugged him up and they stumbled back inside just as the rain decided to fall harder.

12 hours. Had it been enough?

“Was it a good swim at least?” Alan asked, opening the door for him.

“I don’t know yet.”

Alan laughed. “What does that even mean?”

“I’ll know the answer the next time I have to swim out to someone.”

Alan stiffened and his entire demeanour changed. His shoulders slumped sympathetically and his head cocked to the side, his fingers flexing and unflexing. Suddenly he couldn’t meet Gordon’s eyes.

“It wasn’t your fault. You did your best-”

“And it wasn’t enough” Gordon interrupted harshly, “I need to be better.”

Alan gaped at his brother.

“You’re an Olympic gold medalist! If you couldn’t get to her in time, no one could. Your best is THE best.”

“Yes, but I need to be better. Amanda Sorelli is dead… because of me.”

Water was still dripping from Gordon’s hairline. It might have been on purpose because his eyes looked shinier than they usually did.

Alan sighed. There was no getting through to him, and he knew it. Tracy stubbornness was next level.

“Scott said he’ll ban you from the pool if you keep beating yourself up.”

“Not beating myself up.”

Alan pulled a face that suggested he strongly disagreed with Gordon’s assessment. Gordon didn’t see it though because he kept closing his eyes tiredly, exhaustion pulling him from the adrenaline of his 12 hour intensive swim. He was dragging his legs and hardly seemed to notice.

He needed a shower, but there was no way he’d last through one alone.

Alan deposited him onto the shower floor and turned the stream of water away from him. He got it to a warm temperature before he turned it back. Gordon hugged his knees and closed his eyes. He might have fallen asleep, but once Alan had rinsed him and run shampoo and conditioner through his hair, shut off the water and draped a huge fluffy towel around him, he came to enough to stand up and hobble back to his room with Alan’s help.

Alan pulled pyjamas on over Gordon’s swimwear and dumped him on the bed. He’d probably get a rash, but that would be his problem.

He seemed to fall asleep somewhere between standing and lying down because his legs were dead weight as Alan slid them under the covers. He pulled the quilt over his older brother’s shoulders and watched him sleeping for just a little while longer.

He’d been so close to saving Amanda Sorelli. If he’d been a little bit faster, he would have made it and she might have come out of it unscathed. She also might have suffered irreversible brain damage, Alan reflected, and really which was worse?

But the answer was simple in his eyes. This could go on for days or weeks, with Gordon killing himself in the pool, unable to stand the fact that no matter how hard he trained, he would never save her.

Gordon didn’t know that Alan knew his phone’s password, and even though this might reveal the fact it was worth it. He turned off Gordon’s 5am alarm and put the phone on charge before leaving the room, aware that he’d have to do the same thing all over again tomorrow.

[blinktwicebaby]

Whumptober 2024

Day 2- amusement park

Fandom: thunderbirds are go

Note: also posted on AO3 here I am only uploading some of them on tumblr :)

Alan watched his brothers tossed around like rag dolls, their arms flailing in the air while they screamed.

He wished he was up there with them instead of sitting on the park bench across from the roller coaster, his arms crossed as he pouted.

It seemed like a betrayal to see Gordon up there with them, his hair barely getting him over the line for the height requirements before they all got on the murdercoaster. Last time they’d come here Gordon was sitting beside him on the bench, but this time around it was only Alan.

His Mom was beside him too, but she didn’t count.

They screamed joyously, Virgil’s whoops and laughter the loudest of all of them when the coaster whipped close enough to the protective rails. It felt like an eternity before the coaster slowed into its station, and even longer before the Tracy brothers stumbled off the first ride of the day, hair sufficiently wind-swept and knees knocking. A pang of jealousy spiked the back of Alan’s brain when Scott tousselled Gordon’s hair and the younger brother elbowed the older one, all in fun of course.

“Where to next?” Alan asked, hopeful that they’d say the chair swings, the bumper cars, maybe even the carousel.

“How about the motocoaster?” John suggested.

The older brothers agreed in a joined ‘YEAH!’ before they walked ahead, Alan trailing behind.

His Mom put her hand on Alan’s head while they walked. The height requirement was the same as the murdecoaster so he would definitely miss out on that one too.

“We’ll meet you at the haunted house when you’re all finished with that one” Lucille said silkily, guiding the youngest towards the dark castle before the brothers could disagree. On the contrary, she could hear John and Scott discussing how this haunted house was ‘actually pretty good’, and she couldn’t help but smile. She felt so lucky to have her boys, and so lucky that they were all kind, handsome, smart… perfect.

She bought a corndog for Alan while they waited and he ate it consideringly, watching the break in the traffic of people for his big brothers.

He’d just finished the dog when the group of four appeared in their sights. John pointed them out and they beelined towards their Mom and youngest brother, Gordon running ahead of them.

“It was AWWESOOOME!” Gordon said, shaking Alan’s shoulders aggressively, “you HAVE to be tall enough to go on them next year!”

Alan barked laughter. It felt good to be acknowledged where he was forced to miss out.

“At least we can finally go through here” he said, indicating the giant black castle, a silver skeleton glistening on top of it.

“Oh yeah, now that you’re 8.” Gordon was rubbing the back of his head nervously.

“Are you finally going on this one?” Virgil asked mockingly.

“Or are you still being a chicken?” John added.

“Not a chicken” Gordon muttered.

“Come ON!” Alan urged, eager to finally go on a ride. He nudged Gordon towards the attraction, missing the longing look he gave their mom. He heard the brief ‘look after him’ that Mom always gave the older boys. Alan wasn’t worried though. He’d been waiting for this!

“Step right up and see the clowns! They have big shoes and all of their limbs! At least they did last I checked” sang out the worker, followed by a janky chainsaw noise. He confirmed the boys ages and pulled back the curtains. Alan felt like he could have probably lied in previous years and just said he was 8, but hindsight didn’t exist in their family.

The first level had curtains lining their path, the end wall lit up in green graffitti on a brick wall. ‘Stay away! Go back! Creepy things ahead!’ An arrow pointed to the left with ‘go here!’ and another pointed to the right saying ‘do NOT go here!’ The door to the left didn’t open, so they had to go right. Alan opened the door and poked his head in, vaguely aware of his other brothers somewhere behind him.

It looked like a warehouse room covered in fake blood, the air conditioner fan on the wall spinning in front of artificial lights. They closed the door and something rose from the ground beside them, screaming loudly. Gordon jumped and yelled, grabbing onto Alan’s arm. Alan felt his heart drop, but it wasn’t that scary.

The thing came closer, the actor’s face paint white with blacked out eyes, creepy black blood coming from its mouth. Alan laughed, thoroughly enjoying himself, and they went to the adjoining room. A criminal with a knife. A creepy woman with a broken doll moving towards them slowly (which actually did freak Alan out a little bit.) A revolving room with a screaming person tied to the floor, spinning around, begging them to help him.

They went further into the house, the actors jumping at them or threatening them. Alan felt on edge in a good way, but Gordon was one big scare away from bursting into tears. Alan hoped he didn’t, simply because he was enjoying spending time with his brother so much.

“How much more of this is there?” Gordon asked in an unusually high voice.

Alan was about to share that he had no idea, but three people jumped out at them from every side, pulling them both to the ground. Alan yelped as he tripped, but Gordon’s scream told him he’d had enough. He pushed the others away and ran through the haunted house at full speed, hands covering his peripheral so his tunnel vision could lead the way.

Alan saw his older brothers run after Gordon, laughing, calling after him that it was ‘just a joke!’ Scott stopped at the doorway and looked down at Alan briefly before running after the others.

Alan laughed through his teeth and got back to his feet. He felt a little disappointed at being alone. He had to get out quickly even he just wanted to enjoy the haunted house… but there would be other chances. Maybe he could even convince Virgil to go with him after dark.

He moved onto the next room and found an actor dressed as a clown. He wasn’t a particularly scary clown, which is what made him seem so much more creepy and out of place.

“You like bubbles?” The clown asked, blowing bubbles through a tiny yellow blower.

“I think they’re cool” Alan responded cooly. None of the actors had actually spoken to him so far. All of them just screamed or made creepy noises.

“You going that way?” The clown asked, pointing to the next room, “I saw a bunch of others go that way.”

“Those were my brothers” Alan replied, curious to see where this guys script would take them.

“Bit mean they just left you like that.” He puffed out his lips and blew more bubbles through the blower, the light barely reflecting their soapy surfaces in the dim light.

Alan was getting bored by this clown so he shrugged, eager to move on.

“There’s another door here if you’d like it” the clown said, standing to the side to reveal a hidden door, ��it gives you a different experience to everyone who goes that way.”

Alan’s eyes darted between the doors. He was supposed to stay with his brothers… but so far they’d left him on every single ride, ones they’d ridden for years that he still couldn’t go on. This was the FIRST time he was allowed on something scarier than the ‘ladybug coaster’ and they’d just rushed out of there without him.

“I think I’ll take you up on that” Alan said decidedly. The clown opened the door and stood to the side, still blowing bubbles boredly. Alan stepped forward, a little nervous to be near this guy. He gave the aura that he’d go ‘BAH!’ and act like it was the best scare Alan had ever received.

Primed for a cheap jump scare, Alan looked into the room and saw black. Nothing but black.

“That’s a bit-” he started, but the clown pushed him inside and shut the door. The clown took him by the neck of his shirt and dragged him kicking and screaming down the hall, but on the other side of the walls all anyone could hear were screams anyway.

* * *

Gordon emerged from the haunted house and tripped over the stairs at the exit, sprawling himself in the dirt. Virgil only just managed to jump over him in time, and John was hunched over in the doorway laughing with Scott trying to push around him.

The oldest managed to think skinny thoughts and get around John. He snaked his hands under Gordon’s ribs and hoisted him up onto his feet. Under his palm he could feel the younger brother’s heart racing.

“Still alive Gordon?” Virgil teased.

“Barely you dirtbags!” He yelled, and suddenly Scott was holding him back as he tried to punch and kick Virgil and John.

“Careful guys” Scott said in a mock dangerous tone, “he’s out for your blood!”

John and Virgil feigned fear and John was the first to walk back towards their mother. Scott let Gordon go and they all followed (but not before Gordon got one good kick in.)

“Where’s Alan?” Lucille asked consideringly.

All four brothers turned around expectantly, watching the dark castle’s exit.

“He has to come out soon” Scott assured, “they were over half way when we found them-”

“You mean JUMPED us!” Gordon interjected

“-so I’m guessing he decided to keep taking his time. It IS the first time he’s been allowed in there.”

But minutes kept ticking by and other people were leaving the haunted house.

“Those girls were definitely behind us” Gordon wavered as two older girls came out.

Scott bit his lip.

“Come on Virgil” he decided, heading back to the entrance of the house. Virgil followed him at a jog, both of them sufficiently concerned.

Minutes later Scott and Virgil appeared on the other side again, pale as ghosts. They found the nearest member of staff and were talking fast to them while the rest of their available family joined them.

“-and he didn’t come out. He’s only 8!”

The worker spoke into his two-way radio without acknowledging any of them.

“We’re emptying the house and then we’ll turn the lights on and do a sweep with everyone available. They’ll look in every room and hidden passage.”

“Hidden passage?” John asked.

“Crew use it to get around without being seen” the worker confirmed, bored.

“And if you can’t find him?” Lucille forced through her lips. How could she even think that? Of course they would find him!

The guy sighed.

“Then you’ll have to call the police and we have to shut down the ride for a while.”

“Well hopefully it won’t come to that” Scott said, putting a comforting arm around his Mom’s shoulders. He could feel her shivering under it.

The house emptied and the entry line grew expectantly as people waited impatiently for the lights to go back off and for the staff to get out of there and start rolling them right up again. The Tracy family watched with bated breath for the youngest of them to re-emerge, thoughts racing all the time.

“I should have waited for him” Scott stammered. He’d seen Alan and chosen to follow the others, intreagued by the worker’s immediate reactions to their shenanigans. Their abashed confusion was worth it in the moment, but now he wished he’d waited the extra 3 seconds for Alan to get up and follow.

But it was a haunted house! One way! He had to be lost in there, or else they’d have seen him! He was… safe.

“We shouldn’t have scared them” Virgil added, his eyes burning and bloodshot.

The workers appeared at the exit looking forlon, throwing sympathetic looks at the waiting family.

“No one was in there” the worker from the exit told them, “Mark’s calling it in right now.”

Lucille took a deep breath, trying to shut out the voiceover announcing that the haunted house was now closed, the grunts and groans in response, the people yelling ‘are you serious!’ ‘Why the hell?’ ‘What!?’

John had been quiet but voiced his concern for the first time.

“Where did he go?”

* * *

Every nerve in Alan’s body was sparking and no amount of mental gymnastics would make it stop. Even the nerve in his big toe was shooting off to him that something was terribly wrong, although he didn’t need his big toe to tell him that. Having his hands duct taped up to the elbow in front of his chest with another piece over his mouth was more than enough indication that he was in trouble.

He’d tried kicking out at the truck’s metal walls, sure that the obvious banging would be enough to alert anyone nearby, but the sound of metal banging around was commonplace at Star Park and he could only assume that his attempts fell deaf.

The truck started and Alan fell onto his side, barely getting his joined arms underneath him to cushion his head against the metal ground riddled with the tyre’s bouncy vibrations.

He used the soles of the shoes he’d received for his birthday only that year to push himself into the corner across from the exit, the accordioned door letting light peek around its edges.

He gasped for air through his nose like a fish out of water, a horrible noise coming from his throat as it tried to use his mouth. For a moment he really believed that some noxious gas was being fed into the truck, but then he managed to remember the accordion doors and its tiny spaces.

He closed his eyes and leaned his head on the corner of the truck, the movement knocking his head every time the huge vehicle jostled. His breathing became competely manual, breathe in deep, breathe out deeper.

One issue resolved, he opened his eyes again and tried to make out anything in the darkness.

It seemed to be a standard moving truck, completely empty except for a dolly tied to the wall with trailer tie downs, and netting bolted into the wall to keep furniture from migrating to places where it shouldn’t be.

Alan stood up uneasily and reached for the netting, but with his arms folded and tied together it was impossible to reach the net.

The truck gave another hard lurch and Alan fell backwards, his spine crunching when it hit the side of the truck. Red hot pain shot through it from his brain to his pelvis and his pained grunt was almost completely muted. Air escaped him again and he HAD TO GET THE STUPID TAPE OFF HIS MOUTH!

He rounded his tongue on the inside of the tape, wetting it as much as he could. It tasted like bugs. Sticky, metallic little bugs.

The tip of two fingers found a corner sticking up and he peeled slowly, the few facial hairs he had tearing at the follicle. It reached his lips and the pull became a rip as the dry skin came off, feeling like a sunburn at first but quickly turning to the sensation of a real burn. He had to stop, tears beading immediately in his eyes and dripping down his cheeks, creating two cold streams that touched the edges of the tape.

He tried a different angle, pulling it all around his face until it was only his lips that needed to be freed. The tape’s covered area greatly reduced, he pulled gently from the other side, surprised to find it peeling away with only a few strings of skin pulling away with it. Would he even have half of his lips when this was all over?

The tape met it’s nasty middle and the final tug felt impossible. There was the implication of pure agony, and the wetness already dampening streaks down his chin was far from the comfort he needed.

He gripped the final fold of tape between the fingers on each hand like a sandwich, a prayer interrupted by a bit of tape. He put the pressure he needed between his fingers and shut his eyes, the corners of them already hurting from what he was about to do.

He took a deep breath through the freed corner of his mouth and grit his teeth. Whatever happened, he couldn’t scream.

He did a couple of test pulls before ripping it off, all of them on the count 1,2- 3! And as predicted it was the worst of everything he’d felt so far. He screamed with his mouth shut, his lips pressed together. The streak of blood became a temporary stream, and if he took the tape to the light he would probably see chunks of his own mouth caked onto it.

But it was done. His lips came apart and he took in every heavy breath he needed.

It seemed possible now, that he might reach the net. He jumped up at it and his fingertips caught in it, and with a slight adjustment he could grip it properly in his hands. The problem was that his feet completely cleared the ground, and that made the whole exercise kind of pointless.

He thought with bitterness that all of his problems could have been fixed by just being taller. They wouldn’t have gone into the haunted house so quickly if he could go on the coolest rides first, but he was short. Short and easy to kidnap.

He let go of the net- an awkward movement that sent his feet directly into what Alan assumed was the loudest part of the ground. He stood there for a minute, a statue that could be broken at any moment. The truck’s steady movements went on and Alan dropped to his knees with a sigh. They already hurt as they knocked against the moving metal floor but it was better than walking normally and tripping over.

He crawled towards the door hoping desperately for something that would open it. A lever, an emergency button, a bar keeping it closed��� anything! But this truck was from a designer that was either very smart, or very dumb. There was no safety mechanism for someone who was locked in there, but there was also nothing for a stray box to hit and open the door by accident.

The limited light was becoming brighter as the day wore on and Alan found that the initial shock of what had happened was still wearing off. New realisations kept finding their way into his head, the weight of what had happened and what MIGHT happen prodding him, teasing him, making him see how bad the situation really was where the pleasant mental block had protected him. Acidic bile rose into the back of his throat, and while he tried to suppress it his stomach lurched and the white vomit projected from his mouth, splattering the floor, his hand and part of his tee shirt. His stomach rolled again and he threw up chunks of corn dog, the fried taste that was once so delicious one he knew he’d never enjoy again.

The truck lurched again and the mess crept towards Alan. His brain finally kicked in and he backed away from it, pushing himself back into his corner. His back hit the wall gently, but it was enough to send a hard flick along it. He yelped from the shock and the dull ache returned, cruelly reminding him that he’d hit it earlier (since he’d evidently forgotten.)

Hopelessness enveloped him and he dropped onto his side, curling himself into a ball as tightly as his limits would allow. His shaking hands curled under his chin, though he’d liked to have covered his face with them. They touched the dried blood from his scabbed lips and the heavy weight of what would happen next returned. He doubted the clown would take him to the hospital, or even give him some lip balm to soothe them. He’d already hurt himself so badly by accident- how much worse could the clown do on purpose?

Tears burned in the corners of his eye and dropped, thick and hot over his nose and towards the ground as gravity made them. Shaking, scared, convinced he’d die, he cried until he was on the edge of sleep, the tape from his mouth unknowingly stuck to his leg and his vomit spread to capacity and drying.

He could feel himself becoming weighted as he came closer and closer to sleeping, but the hum of the wheels underneath him slowed and crunched to a stop. The door to the cab opened and closed and he was suddenly wide awake, terrified to move. He waited for the door to open up, but to his surprise he heard a crunching noise followed by a tiny bump of metal on metal. Following that was the high hum of a petrol station’s gas pump.

Alan listened, his breathing slow and forced, but most importantly, silent. It could be his only chance…

He carefully pressed his ear to the side, and when the pump clicked he heard the cap get screwed back on. He heard the steps on gravel fade away, and his only chance came.

He kicked and screamed on the side of the truck, hoping against everything that the clown was inside and far away enough that he wouldn’t hear.

“IM IN HERE! HELP-” He screamed, over and over, hoping that at least one person would hear him. In his head he imagined the clown walking in, going straight to the made up counter, paying, coming back out as quickly as he could. When his fantasy fulfilled that the clown was at the exit, he stopped, sitting back in the corner, silent. It was a few more minutes before the sound of the cab door opening announced the clowns return, but Alan had no regrets for stopping when he did. Until he realised that it was more likely that no one had heard him.

Regret swirled with pride at his defiance. He should have done more. He was scared, but he should have done more. The trucks engine switched on and they were moving again.

A pressure grew in Alan’s bladder and no amount of crossing his legs and clenching relieved it. He struggled on what to do- he could piss himself, or he could find a spot in the truck to go.

Which one would make the clown the least angry?

The light outside was dimming and his head was starting to spin. He looked at the vomit stinking at the other end of the truck and sighed. He crawled over to it and kneeled down, aiming his stream to the centre of the mess he’d already made. His urine was a deep yellow bordering on the edge of dehydration, but at the same time there was a lot of it. He made his way back to the corner when he was done and stared at the surface of the water reflecting in the dimming light. The truck lurched and Alan gasped, his heart jolting as the urine spread across the floor towards him. It stopped and his heartbeat slowed. It should have been far away enough not to touch him, but he wouldn’t see it coming anyway.

The part of his lips that he hadn’t pulled off were crusty and dry. His cheeks felt waxy and his forehead was pulsing, the rest of his skin feeling oily and drab. Was that what the clown had wanted? For him to be so beaten down that he couldn’t fight back?

He didn’t fight back. Scott, Virgil, John or Gordon would have fought back, but he didn’t. He screamed, he pulled, he kicked, but he was still thrown into the back of the truck.

Would the clown kill him? Would he hurt him for fun, tie him to a chair for years, or torture him?

The worst ideas pummelled their way into Alan’s brain. Every terrible thing his 8 year old mind could conceive fired off his neurons, snowballing into something worse with every passing second.

He curled up in his corner, his numbed arms closed to his chest. He pillowed his head and let the tears fall silently. He closed his eyes, unaware of time anymore. He wasn’t sure if he slept or not, for a short time or a long time, but the truck kept moving around him anyway. When he opened them again he was in complete darkness, the light through the accordion doors gone. There was no difference between opened or closed eyes.

His shoes and the cuff if his pants were wet, the urine apparently migrated enough to soak into them. He felt a friction rash on his ankle, but that was just another injury to add to every other painful little thing he’d acquired since that morning.

His stomach screamed at him in hunger and he wondered vaguely if he could pick any good pieces of corn dog out of the vomit. He wasn’t that desperate though. More than that, he didn’t want to move anymore. Moving hurt. Moving didn’t make sense.

He heard the truck coming to another slow stop, the dozenth one since he’d woken up. Whatever town they were in, there were a lot of traffic lights.

His heart pounded at the sound of sirens, and the edges of the accordion doors flashed blindingly with red and blue lights. Was it a trick?

Hope crept into him and he felt every injury tenfold, weighing him down so he couldn’t move. His legs stiffened and the dull ache in his back made him immobile, every inch of him shaking in anticipation.

There was a metallic clink as a chain dropped to the road outside followed by the eerie creak of heavy metal scraping heavy metal. A gap opened from the bottom. Flashing lights flooded the room and Alan closed his eyes tightly against them and turned his head further into the corner. Silhouettes blocked out the blinding, flashing lights and torch lights replaced them.

���-matches the description” a male voice said quickly. Hands touched his face and Alan flinched. How could he believe this was real after everything he’d endured.

“Come on baby” a woman said, tugging Alan onto his feet. He kept his eyes closed while someone led him out. Arms circled around his hips and someone lifted him. It made his back throbbed and he couldn’t help the high whine that came out of his mouth.

His legs bent and he was sitting on the edge of a bench, more hands touching him in various places. Something wet touched his chin and his tongue greedily lapped up whatever metallic dregs it could reach.

“What’s your name, son?” A man asked.

“Alan” he replied raspily.

“Middle and last name?”

“Bartlett-” he coughed around a hard lump, his whole body like static, “-Tracy.”

There were voices all around and Alan tried again to open his eyes. The flashing had moved away (or maybe HE had moved away,) and his eyes scanned around for any sign of the clown.

He yelped when they moved his bound arms in front of him, the angle hurting his shoulders. He gave them his full attention as they cut the duct tape, staring from his elbows and moving downward towards his hands. They pulled away from each other and past the pale, patterned skin was another easy cut for the tape. They cut through the other side and Alan’s arms shot apart, resting by his sides. They rubbed Vaseline underneath the rest of the tape, peeling it off as they dug further in. Alan tried not to make any more noises, but the numbness was so advanced that the entire area had turned completely white and he could feel his blood trying to get back into its rhythm and he wanted to scream.

They moved him into the ambulance and a person sat on either side of him and rubbed his forearms, trying to get some colour back into them. He wanted to ask them for water, but he was scared to ask them for anything.

“It’s late Alan” the female paramedic said, her hands still pushing the skin on his arm vigerously, “try to get some sleep.”

Alan closed his eyes and listened to the siren whirring above him. The ambulance rocked him and lulled him on the comfy bed, and the gentle touches on his arm were so nice that he was asleep in seconds.

When he woke up he felt rested. He could vaguely remember a dryness in his mouth, but he couldn’t taste anything at all. His eyes were closed and the bed was comfy and perfectly warm. Fingers were stroking his hair flat and he could have stayed there forever.

“He’s in the paper, Mom.” John’s voice, right on the border of teen and adult but teetering towards the latter.

“Did they mention Alan?” That was Virgil, his voice always so deep that it sounded fake even when he was concerned.

“Nope” John replied, “only the capture of Seymour Evans, the pedophile serial killer they captured early this morning.”

There were gasps from four others at the news, the closest being a woman. Mom.

Wait… did he say serial killer?

“What the hell?” Alan asked, opening one eye and twisting his head to find John. Lucille threw her arms around Alan and squeezed him, general cries of ‘YOU’RE OKAY!’ on repeat. Whether they were talking to Alan or themselves wasn’t clear.

Everyone else sat around his bed but the sympathetic looks they were giving him made Alan want to evaporate. Virgil gave him props for the pain killers he was on and received an elbow in the side from Scott. Alan wished they would make more jokes like that instead of watch him. He wasn’t going anywhere…

But he almost did. He was almost murdered, and whatever a peder-file did, because he went through the door. Because they’d left him. Because they’d gone to Star park. Because he was too short for the better rides. Did they blame themselves, as much as he blamed himself?

“His name will probably be in the media soon” John said wisely. Lucille nodded in agreement. Of course it would get out that the son of a billionaire was kidnapped by a high profile criminal on their day out.

There was something stiff in Lucille’s demeanour that made Alan nervous, the tightness of her lips combined with her rod straight posture.

“Am I allowed to go to the bathroom?” Alan asked. Scott reached for the button on the wall and within the minute a nurse walked in, all smiles and happiness. Even her nametag said Joy.

She helped Alan into the adjoining bathroom, his drip still hanging from his arm. She said she’d be just outside and Alan did his business, his urine a lighter colour that eased his concerns just a little bit.

He sat down on the seat and stared at his reflection, barely recognising himself. His lips were peeled and puffier than a pillow, his eyes dark and sunken in, his forehead reflecting like plastic, his skin colour pasty and bruised. Aside from the needle marks in his arms and the tube coming from them like an old computer mouse, they were white with the lines from the duct tape cut into his skin. If he could lift up his hospital gown he’d probably find an outline of his vertebrate tattooed into the skin on his back, purple and black just as his legs below the knees were. The patch of skin on his ankle that friction had rubbed away felt cold, and that was what made the whole thing real.

Tears brimmed and fell down his cheeks, and like the child he was, he stood there frozen and cried for his Mom until she came.

[blinktwicebaby]

He’s literally me

a boy and his bike

[blinktwicebaby]

[blinktwicebaby]

This is the Nightwing from HBO’s animated Harley Quinn series

nightwing was the most scrumdiddlyumptious here IDC. bring back emo ass nightwing with a mullet im begging u dc. todd nauck i owe u my life

[blinktwicebaby]

The 2000s CG reboot is the only version I’ve seen (I only found it on prime earlier this year, I’ll get to the original, I promise!) and it’s so easy to look past the hideous CGI because the story and action is SO COMPELLING! It is truly underrated and deserved more.

Remember how he wasn't invincible, only indestructible? Every single time he got shot or crushed or blown up or fell off something he experienced the pain and misery of death over and over again before the Mysteron retrometabolism returned him back to how he was before.

And remember how "before" for him means existing as the alien replica of the dead body of the real Captain Scarlet? Free will aside he's still a Mysteron replica so does he eat? Breathe? Sleep? Age?

Does he still believe he's even human? Do the rest of SPECTRUM?

[blinktwicebaby]

[blinktwicebaby]

“You deserve every good thing you have” Scott said in a small voice.

Been beating teenaged John up in my ao3 fan fiction lately. He just needs a reminder that he IS loved 🥺