#admittedly our brain tends to just start splitting and then not finish the split until it finds something to introject

[thethingything]

you can engage with new media as a fictive heavy system who's currently incredibly prone to splitting after some extremely stressful life events, but watch out...

[tsarisfanfiction]

Long Way From Home: Chapter 6

Fandom: Thunderbirds Rating: Teen Genre: Family/Friendship Characters: Scott, Tracy Family

There’s a lot in this chapter - more compare and contrast, yay! - but the bit I want to mention specifically is one of the major society differences between TOS and TAG, which stems entirely from the 50 years between writing - sexism.  I’ve noticed that a lot of TOS-based fics tend to shift away from or gloss over that, because that’s just how it was in the 60s when TOS was written and there’s no need to honour it (past the Alan/Tin-Tin spats) in modern fanfic.

Normally, I’d agree, but as already mentioned, I’m playing compare and contrast, and quite frankly the sexism was too tempting to pass up.  Now, that does not mean we’ll have City of Fire-esque “crazy woman driver” in the fic because that was writer-sexism, not in-universe, and I’m not about that.  Perceptions of women as delicate flowers who are supposed to be seen and not heard by the male [TOS] cast, though?  We are definitely playing with that, so consider this a warning.  I could go into an entire essay on this, but you’re not here for that, you’re here to see it all through TAG!Scott’s eyes, so let’s let him tell the tale, shall we?

<<<Chapter 5

Scott was on the slippery slope towards a fourth loss – with no wins – when the house trembled slightly. The unmistakable roar of a jet engine in close proximity told him what the cause of it was, and he didn’t need Other-Gordon to confirm it as Thunderbird One.  She might not be his Thunderbird One, and her engine might make a different noise, no doubt due to different technology, but Scott had always had an ear for plane engines.  Having already heard it once, the cry of this universe’s Thunderbird One was instantly recognisable.

“Do you want to finish up first or call it here?” Other-Gordon asked, either correctly assuming that Scott had every intention of seeing his counterpart now he was back, or simply wanting to attend the debrief himself.

“How long do post-flight checks take here?” he replied, eyeing the board with a brain only half concentrating on the game now and trying to work out if he could do anything other than be defeated before Other-Scott finished said checks and emerged from the hangar.

“Scott’ll be out in five minutes, assuming nothing went wrong on the mission,” Other-Gordon told him, glancing down at his watch.  “They weren’t gone long, so it probably all went smoothly.”

“Well I’m not going to get this turned around in five minutes,” he sighed, gesturing at the board, “so we might as well call it.”  Other-Gordon laughed.

“You’re right about that,” he agreed.  “You’re only two moves away from defeat anyway.”  Scott could see that, and knocked his King over to save himself the bother.  Other-Gordon laughed again, and swept the pieces up, packing them away before standing. “Let’s see what my brothers had to deal with this time,” he commented, with barely a hint of bitterness to betray the fact he’d have liked to be on it rather than stuck at home waiting.  Scott pulled himself up out of the comfortable chair he’d got used to sitting in for the past couple of hours.

“Lead the way.”

They got as far as the door before Other-Gordon stopped, looking up at him with a serious expression he hadn’t seen on his face since before they started playing chess.

“Before we do,” he started; Scott instinctively straightened at the tone.  “Knowing you – well, Scott, and assuming it’s something else you two share – you’re no doubt going to be analysing and second-guessing everything the fellas did out on the rescue.  Do me a favour and keep it to yourself.”

Scott blinked.  “What?”

Other-Gordon didn’t budge, arms crossed.  “Your universe and ours have different technology; we’ve all realised that. It’s likely that means you’d make different calls to us, based on what you’d have at your disposal if you were with your own International Rescue.  John and Brains, hell maybe Scott and Virgil, too, will be curious at the differences, but save it until you’re asked. ��The debrief isn’t a place for hypotheticals based on other-universe technology and I doubt you’d appreciate it if roles were reversed and it was our Scott butting in on your debriefs.”

Scott sighed.  “You have a point,” he admitted.  Keeping his mouth shut when he had an opinion was not something he was particularly well-practiced in, but Other-Gordon was right. He’d be fuming if someone who knew nothing about International Rescue’s capabilities interrupted his own debriefs. The idea that he didn’t know International Rescue’s capabilities rankled, but he remembered Other-John’s rundown of the situation earlier and how many terms had been unfamiliar to him. Hell, they even had different names for something as fundamental as Thunderbird Two’s modules.  He sighed again, running a hand down his face, to a raised eyebrow from Other-Gordon.

“Everything alright?” the other man asked, and he shrugged.

“You do realise I’m not used to not being in charge?” he asked rhetorically, prompting a laugh from the ginger.

“I had noticed,” he commented dryly.  “Dad’s still going to have a fit if you walk in looking like that, and Scott’s going to want to know what you think you’re doing with his shirt.”

“I’m wearing it,” Scott shrugged.

“Badly,” Other-Gordon retorted, turning away and opening the door, leading the way back towards the lounge – and Not-Dad.  Scott tried not to think about the fact he’d soon be in the older man’s presence again.

“It’s more comfortable this way,” he bit back instead, determined to get the last word.

“It looks sloppy.” Other-Gordon clearly didn’t feel like letting him have it.

“Maybe I don’t like looking like a pampered son of a billionaire.”  Two could play at that game.

“That’s what you are, so own it.”

“Actually, I’m the billionaire,” Scott pointed out, the one result of Dad’s crash he’d finally found himself comfortable with, if only through necessity and the fact that it was how International Rescue could still operate.  “I can look how I want.”

Other-Gordon froze for a fraction of a second before continuing the walk through the villa, a barely-there stumble that told Scott he hadn’t realised that aspect.

“Touché,” he conceded after a moment.  “But I don’t think that’ll wash with either of them.”  Scott shrugged.

“I stopped caring what other people thought a long time ago,” he pointed out.  It was only half a lie – he cared about the opinions of his brothers and closest friends.  He didn’t care about the rest of the world’s opinions.

Or another universe’s.

Other-Gordon chuckled again, jogging up the stairs with Scott hot on his heels before heading for the lounge.  Scott paused as they crossed the threshold, seeing Tin-Tin already there, but he refused to baulk.  Not-Dad was sat behind the desk, looking every inch the man in charge, and he dragged his feet into the room, finding a seat on the edge of the depressed circle and sprawling out on it as though he was at home.

As it happened, his entrance was timed perfectly.  Just as Not-Dad caught sight of him, face drawing into a look of disapproval and mouth opening to dish it out in what would no doubt be a tongue lashing, the section of wall housing the two lamps swung around, revealing Other-Scott.

“I’m back, Dad,” he greeted, a split second before he, too, caught sight of Scott and his new attire. “Hey, what are you wearing?”

“Unless you’re in the habit of keeping anyone else’s clothes in your closet, your clothes,” Scott shrugged, eyeing what the other man was wearing.  Blue rollneck, checkered blue cardigan and dark brown slacks.

Fashion was definitely different in this universe.

“You look disgraceful,” Not-Dad cut in, but he didn’t look over at him.  Their voices were different, so as long as he didn’t look at him, the scolding didn’t hurt so much.  “Do up that shirt properly.”  Scott ignored him, and Other-Gordon’s sing-song I told you so.

Other-Scott was less ignorable, striding up to him and yanking sharply on the sleeve cuffs to unroll them.

“Don’t wreck my clothes,” he complained.  “You’ll stretch the sleeves doing that.”  Scott rolled his eyes and tugged his arms back.  “Dad, someone needs to get him some new clothes; he can’t keep wearing mine.”

“Or the same underpants because he refuses to wear yours,” Other-Gordon cut in.

“Gordon, Tin-Tin’s present!” Not-Dad snapped, although the young woman was tittering quietly and didn’t seem at all mortified.  “We’ll deal with the clothing situation once debrief is over.  In the meantime, wear my son’s clothes properly, young man.”

Scott tugged at the sleeves, smoothing them out again at Other-Scott’s request but not doing up any buttons.

“Are you always this insolent?” Not-Dad demanded when he realised Scott wasn’t obeying him.  “What does it take to get some respect in my own house?”

Hiding his reluctance, Scott turned his head to meet his eyes.  Not-Dad’s eyes were still a hard steely grey; both Other-John and Other-Gordon had mentioned that the two of them clashing was inevitable, and Scott could tell that they were right.  He should defer to the other man – it was his home, and he was the one in charge of the people that could get him home – but even considering doing so made his heart rebel violently.

He hadn’t protected his family and his father’s legacy for the past eight years by backing down, and he wasn’t about to start now.

“I respect people who earn it,” he said pointedly.  “You don’t get a free pass just because you’re rich and powerful; I’ve rescued too many rich and powerful people from their own stupidity for that.” Francois Lemaire came to mind. The reasoning behind birthday parties in the Mariana Trench and flying into a comet’s coma still boggled him.

Not-Dad looked taken aback, as though the idea of earning respect was foreign to him.  Or maybe it was the fact that he admittedly looked just like the man’s eldest son, so maybe hearing that from him was a shock to the system.

“What about International Rescue?” the man asked, and Scott shrugged.

“What about it?”

“Does that not get your respect?”

“I can respect what an organisation does without respecting the man behind it,” he pointed out, coolly.  “The fact that you’re International Rescue tells me that you’ll do everything you can to get me home, and I respect that.”

“So you don’t respect us,” Not-Dad said flatly, a hint of anger in his tone, and Scott shrugged.

“I don’t know you,” he reminded the room at large.  “You’re an alternate universe version of my family, and I’m still working out what that means.  I trust you to help me, but respect?  I don’t know you well enough for that.”

“He’s got a point, Dad,” Other-Scott said, perching on the arm of the neighbouring chair.  The support was unexpected, but welcome. “Just because he looks like me doesn’t mean he is me.”

“You’re pretty similar,” Other-Gordon piped up, and Scott rolled his eyes.

“That’s not what you said earlier,” he reminded him.  Other-Gordon simply shrugged.

“I’m working with more information now.”

“What information?” Not-Dad demanded, and Scott sent the ginger a glare, realising too late that the younger man had never agreed not to share their conversation in the hangar. Other-Gordon was too sharp for his liking.  Was his Gordon going to end up that difficult to wrangle in four years, or was it just because despite appearances he wasn’t Other-Gordon’s brother?

“I spent the last three hours playing chess against him,” Other-Gordon informed the room.  To his surprise, Other-Scott laughed.

“You couldn’t beat him either?  Gordon’s a demon when it comes to chess.”

“I can’t say I expected to win,” Scott admitted.  “That’s a fact in both universes.”  Other-Gordon preened, and Not-Dad sat back in his desk chair, clearly deciding to let them talk without his intervention.

That act felt a little bit more like Dad, and Scott looked away, the never-healed hole in his heart throbbing painfully.  Other-Gordon sent him a sharp look, but said nothing.  Other-Scott watched the silent exchange with confusion; Scott didn’t plan on enlightening him, even if he was probably drawing his own conclusions.

Scott looked around as Other-Gordon carried the conversation, talking a mile a minute about chess with – or rather, at – his eldest brother, who slumped off of the arm of the chair he was perching on to sit in it properly.  Scott could relate to the post-mission exhaustion, and felt a stab of jealousy that as soon as debrief was over, Other-Scott didn’t have to worry about it anymore.  Not-Dad would take it all from there.

No wonder he wasn’t going grey yet.

The photos on the wall had changed.  Gone were the five relaxing young men, lounging around in their civvies. Instead, there were photos of the same five young men all wearing IR blue and coloured sashes, posed just like their own portraits at home.  He couldn’t believe they still wore those damn hats, then again, that was something he’d scrapped after Dad’s crash.  Not-Dad clearly liked the things enough to still keep them, although he wondered if they really wore them all the time.

Their baldrics, although they looked more like sashes than baldrics, matched the colours Other-Scott had rattled off earlier – lilac for Other-John, yellow for Other-Virgil, orange for Other-Gordon and white for Other-Alan.  Other-Scott himself had blue, and Scott wondered how much of a say they’d had in their colours.  At home, they matched their Thunderbirds, but Thunderbird One here was still the same colour scheme.

“Operation Cover-Up was in effect last time you were in here,” Other-Gordon commented.  “If you’re wondering why the pictures are different.”  He turned back to look at him and discovered the room was staring at him.  Of course they were.

“Operation Cover-Up?” he asked, frowning.  “What’s that?”

Other-Scott narrowed his eyes, but it was Not-Dad that replied, frowning back at him in return.

“Surely you have one of your own?” he inquired.  “The identity of International Rescue must be kept secret, after all.”

Scott had almost forgotten about that; the first one of Dad’s rules to fly out of the window, not that he’d been able to do anything about it.

“I wish,” he muttered. While having their identities was useful at times, being dogged and recognised at a glance whenever they were out in public – and unable to let visitors onto the island without extensive background checks because otherwise they’d go snooping – was beyond tiring. Even their location wasn’t as hidden as he’d like, especially not now the GDF knew it – Colonel Casey promised it was a high level clearance secret, but that didn’t change the fact there were people in the GDF that knew.

“Are you saying it’s not a secret in your universe?” Not-Dad demanded, and Scott shrugged.

“The world’s not stupid.” He slumped back in his chair, hyper aware that everyone in the room was watching him with varying levels of interest and disbelief.  “Billionaire ex-Astronaut Jeff Tracy goes missing the exact same time the Commander of IR does.  Two and two makes four.  Not even John and Lady P could cover that up.”  Especially not with the Hood leaking the information left, right and centre before going underground, as though killing his Dad wasn’t enough damage.  “Best we’ve got is that most of the world don’t know where we live.”

“How are you still operating?” Other-Scott asked, beating his father to it by barely a second, judging by Not-Dad’s opened mouth.  “Aren’t people trying to steal the technology?”

Scott groaned.  “All the damn time.  Island’s on permanent lockdown – no-one’s allowed on or off without our security’s approval.  The GDF-” Other-John hadn’t known what that was “-the world military suffers us because we’re better at saving people than them and they know it.  Our godmother being a Colonel helps a lot.”  He ran a hand over his face again, feeling drained just thinking about the mess he had to deal with daily to keep IR running.

How would they manage without him?  Would the GDF force them to shut down, or would John or Virgil step up?  How far did Colonel Casey’s reach go; could she still keep them out of trouble with the GDF?

“Scott?”  It was Other-Gordon that spoke, but when he pulled his hand away from his face it was Not-Dad he looked at.

“It’s possible to operate when the world knows who you are, but it’s a damn headache.”

“Language!” the man barked. “There are women present.”  Scott rolled his eyes, under no illusions that Tin-Tin and Mrs Tracy hadn’t heard worse.

“Gee, so that’s why you’re going grey,” Other-Gordon chipped in, and Scott glowered at him half-heartedly.  “And here I was thinking I was going to need to see if Scott was hiding some dye somewhere.”

“Gordon,” Other-Scott growled.  The ginger put his hands up.

“Just saying; it seemed suspicious that he’s going grey and you’re not.”

“Why would I be going grey already?” Other-Scott demanded.  “I’m thirty.”

“And he’s twenty-seven, so that argument doesn’t hold any water, old chap,” Other-Gordon retorted.

“Wait, what?”  All eyes fell on Scott again, and he sent another withering glance Other-Gordon’s way.  The ginger wasn’t saying anything he’d explicitly wanted not said, but he was definitely skirting around dangerously close to the edge.  “It’s not twenty-sixty-five where you’re from?” Other-Scott continued, and Scott froze.

“Twenty-what?” he asked.  That… didn’t make sense.  That didn’t make sense at all.  He’d be thirty-two in 2065, not thirty.  Then again, the age gaps between Virgil, Gordon and Alan were also different between the two universes, so maybe he shouldn’t be surprised.

“I take it that’s a no?” Other-Scott replied, and he shrugged.

“Twenty-sixty.”

“That’s weird.”

“Tell me about it,” Scott groaned.  “I need to tell your Brains this stuff but apparently I’m not allowed to disturb him.”

“What ‘stuff’?” Tin-Tin asked, inserting herself in the conversation.  “Have you worked anything out?”

“Scott and I were playing spot the difference earlier,” Other-Gordon chipped in.  “Seems there’s a few more differences than we thought.”

“Like different dates of birth,” Other-Scott noted.  “I was twenty-five in twenty-sixty, not twenty-seven.  Is your birthday April fourth?”

Scott nodded, relieved that at least one thing was the same.

“Different age gaps, too,” Other-Gordon pointed out.

“Your brothers are closer in age?” Not-Dad asked.  “It can’t be the opposite, or you’d be too young to operate.”  Scott winced; the topic was getting too close to areas he didn’t want it, and unlike Other-Gordon, Not-Dad and probably Other-Scott wouldn’t let the matter of Alan’s age drop.  “They’re not?”  Not-Dad sounded startled, and he realised the wince had given him away.  “But-”

He stood up suddenly.

“Let me know when you’re debriefing,” he said, and walked out.  Dammit all; he’d said he wouldn’t run away, and he knew he couldn’t keep Alan’s age from Not-Dad and Other-Scott forever, but he wasn’t ready to see the disapproval on Not-Dad’s face.  Not when it was so like Dad’s.

“Scott!”  It was a woman’s voice – Tin-Tin’s, to be precise, and he reluctantly turned to see the younger woman following him hurriedly. With the topic of ages on his mind, he realised she was probably a similar age to Kayo, not older like the Tracy family seemed to be.  Something else that made no sense.

“What is it?” he asked her as she came to a stop in front of her.  No-one else emerged from the lounge; whether they were talking about him, or had decided to entrust him to Tin-Tin, he didn’t know.

“I want to hear about these differences,” she said firmly.  “Brains is busy with the data he already has, but I’m not.”  She put a hand on his arm and directed him towards the stairs.

“What do you mean?” he asked, following her with the reminder that she was this universe’s Kayo stuck in his mind.  Just because she didn’t look as dangerous, didn’t mean she wasn’t.

“You recognised my father’s name, but not mine,” she observed.  “Let’s start at the beginning; good day, it’s very nice to meet you.  My name is Tin-Tin Kyrano and my primary role on the island is as Brains’ assistant.”

That was different, but the words ‘Brains’ assistant’ stuck out like a lifeline.  He smiled at her and stuck out his hand.  “Good day, and it’s very nice to meet you.  The name’s Scott Tracy and in my universe I’m the commander of International Rescue.”  She looked at his hand for a moment before grasping it.  Her grip was light but firm and he knew his initial impressions had been correct – she was not a woman to be crossed.

If she could help get him home, he had no intentions of crossing her.

“Well, now that we’re introduced,” she smiled, guiding him back towards the infirmary but stopping in front of a different door, pushing it open to reveal a homely sitting area, “perhaps we should talk about those differences Brains needs to know about. Come in; we still have fifteen minutes before Thunderbird Two gets back, and the boys won’t be ready for debrief for another fifteen after that.”

It was only after he entered that he saw the king-sized bed, surrounded with drapes, in an alcove of the room and realised it must be her bedroom.

“Take a seat,” she invited, gesturing to a plush loveseat.  “Would you like something to drink?”

“If you have coffee that would be amazing,” he admitted, and she laughed.

“I think the American men on this island would all stop functioning if we didn’t have coffee,” she smiled, heading for a coffee press in the corner of the room.  Scott wondered why that was there when the kitchen was just down the hall.  “How do you take it?”

“However I can get it,” Scott admitted.  “But ideally a splash of milk and a sugar.”

“Just like our Scott,” she commented.  “How you men live off so much caffeine, I will never understand.  Your blood must be more coffee than blood at this rate.”

Scott smiled dryly. “Something like that.”

“I must confess I’m curious – what am I like in your universe?” she asked as she set the water to boil.  “You don’t look at me like you do the boys.”

“Kayo – Tanusha, but we call her Kayo after she put me down in a sparring session – is… different to you,” Scott admitted.  “She’s a tomboy, our head of security after Kyrano… left.  Grew up with us as a sister, jumps into a fight first chance she gets. I have to hold her back more than all of my brothers combined.”

Kayo would be going ballistic that he vanished right under her nose, even though she hadn’t been on the island at the time.  He hoped she wouldn’t follow in Kyrano’s footsteps and vanish after ‘failing’ him. His brothers still needed her, whatever else happened.

Tin-Tin made a noise of surprise.  “I assumed she must have been different, but that is very different,” she observed. The kettle whistled, steam pouring out of it, and she decanted the contents into the coffee press.  “She gets into fights?  Whatever do people think of that?”

“Kayo doesn’t care,” Scott shrugged.  “She usually wins them, anyway.”

“That’s not particularly ladylike,” Tin-Tin observed, although she didn’t sound particularly scandalised about it.  “Is that common in your universe?  You mentioned your godmother’s a Colonel in the military..?”

Scott thought to how Not-Dad had been so strict on language in front of her, and frowned.

“Are women generally treated like they’re made of glass here, or is that just him?” he asked. “Grandma, Kayo and Lady P would have all had something to say if someone specifically cleaned up their language in front of them because they’re female.”

“As a general rule they think we’re delicate flowers, yes,” Tin-Tin confirmed, carrying a tray with two cups on it over to the table.  One was clearly his coffee, while the other looked like another herbal tea.  “Your attitude is quite refreshing, although when Mr Tracy isn’t around the boys lose the gentlemanly airs a little.”

“When you live with a sister who can kick your ass seven ways to Sunday and a Grandma with a sharp tongue you learn women aren’t made of glass pretty damn quick,” Scott shrugged.

“I suppose you would,” she agreed, pulling out a notebook and pencil.  “That seems like quite the incentive, but while you’re here, at least try to pretend you think we’re made of glass.”  She winked.  “It somewhat ruins the deception if a man sees through it.”

That was a very Lady Penelope response, and Scott made a mental note of that.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he agreed, before looking pointedly at the notebook.  “You had questions?”

“Those differences Gordon alluded to,” she confirmed.  “I’ll write them down and give them to Brains to look at once he’s finished with the information he currently has.”  Scott nodded his head and began to talk about the differences he and Other-Gordon had realised earlier.

The different age gaps – Tin-Tin let out a small gasp when she found out Alan was only fifteen, but didn’t comment, much to his relief – and the different years of birth had already been somewhat covered in the lounge, but he also mentioned the differences in appearance, describing them as best he could and failing utterly at anything past “John’s hair is ginger, Virgil’s is black, Gordon’s is blond, and they’re all kinda younger-looking”.  His observation of different fashions, their earlier discussion on perception of women, and even an attempt into the technological differences also made their way into Tin-Tin’s rapidly filling notebook.  At some point they heard the sound of a rumbling engine, deeper than Thunderbird One’s, and he recognised it as this universe’s Thunderbird Two.  Tin-Tin barely reacted, only mentioning off-handedly that they had about fifteen minutes left before continuing their conversation.

She steered clear of asking any questions about what had happened to his Dad, which he appreciated. That wound had been rubbed raw more than enough for one day, what with his initial outburst, Other-John’s quiet probing and Other-Gordon’s outright interrogation.  She did, however, manage to steer the conversation towards his grandmother, and almost fell out of her chair when she discovered Sally Tracy couldn’t cook.

“However do you boys keep yourselves fed?” she demanded.  “If it’s not Mrs Tracy, my father, or Kayo?”

Scott shrugged. “Take-out or snatching time to cook between missions,” he admitted.  “One good thing about the world knowing we’re IR is that if I use Thunderbird One, take-out’s still hot by the time I get it back.”  She laughed at that for a moment before turning serious again.

“But you boys must have a balanced diet,” she worried.  “There’s no way you can keep up with the physical demands of International Rescue without one.”

“We manage,” he assured her. “When John’s home we lock him in the kitchen; he’s by far the best cook out of the five of us.”  That elicited another laugh, although she looked halfway cross with herself for it.  “We can all cook at least enough to survive.”  She didn’t look entirely convinced, but with an entire universe between them, there wasn’t much she could do about it and the topic reluctantly got dropped.

“This is a lot of differences,” she said instead, looking down at her pages and pages of small, scrawling handwriting.  Scott could barely read it, but it had also been a long time since he’d had to read anything handwritten that wasn’t his own writing – and even that was unusual. Why handwrite when you had computers to do that for you?  “Most of them are small enough to work around while you’re here, but the differing years suggest your universe is five years younger than ours, and I’m not sure if there’s any significance about the different years of birth.  That’s something Brains or John might understand better.”

He nodded his understanding, his chest feeling lighter now he felt like they were getting somewhere. Baby steps to be sure, and Other-John’s gentle reminder that it could take years still rang in his ears, but progress was progress.

“Now, it’s about time for the debrief to start,” she said, checking her own watch.  Scott did the same, but the analogue dial taunted him, reminding him that he needed to learn to read it sooner rather than later – although that meant finding someone to teach him.  “Alan and Virgil should be all cleaned up by now.”

Scott drained the remains of his coffee and stood up, empty cup in hand.

“Oh, leave the cup on the table,” Tin-Tin told him.  “I’ll clean it up later.”

“If you’re sure,” he said dubiously – Grandma would have his hide for leaving dirty crockery anywhere that wasn’t the kitchen, and even then it was expected to be cleaned immediately. Rescues were the only permissible excuse to do otherwise.

“Perfectly,” she assured him, hand once again on his arm.  “Come on, let’s go hear about what the boys did today.”  With one last glance at the cup, and noticing that Tin-Tin had picked up her notebook, he let the young woman nudge him out of the room and headed for the stairs up to the lounge again.

Chapter 7>>>

[wellhalesbells]

What are you reading right now? Anything good?

i’m pretty hesitant to try to judge a book before the finish, especially as that is where so many stories fall apart, but i can give you my impressions so far of everything i’ve got going at the moment!

it, by stephen king (pg 251/1156).  as you can see, i am not that far in.  i started this one and the next towards the start of november, then life conspired for a few weeks to distract me from them.  so far though, i’d have to say that i think this is going to be one of the stephen king books i really enjoy.  he’s a pretty evenly split author for me; i’d say i’ve read about eight of his books?  and i’ve hated four and loved four.  when he’s on, he’s on and when he’s off?  he’s just really, really off.  this one has been giving me some serious the stand vibes though, in the sense that it’s a whole complete world with a handful of branching characters that you cannot wait to intersect with each other, and considering the stand is my absolute favorite stephen king book (and also just one of my favorite books in general), i am LOVING this so far.  it’s well-written and encompasses an entire universe, both derry and the characters populating it feel very real, which is always something i really like when i’m reading.  that feeling that you could drop me into the pages and i wouldn’t feel lost because i have a real sense of the place.

the goldfinch, by donna tartt (pg 233/771). stalking donna tartt’s work (after reading and loving the secret history), i would say, has only paid off for me so far.  i adore her writing.  granted, it tends to take me a while because her work is admittedly pretty dense, but it’s proven to be worth it up to this point.  she is such a wonderful writer and the richness of her worlds and characters is really a treat!

idyll fears, by stephanie gayle (pg 123/320).  i think this is my favorite thing i’m reading at the current moment.  it’s the sequel to idyll threats, which i enjoyed a bunch (and this is shaping up to be even better!), and it’s hard to be at work and not reading it honestly.  i’ve been trying to figure out what it is that i love about it so much (i mean, the LGBT aspect is an obvious draw of course but i read a lot of LGBT stuff and don’t have this reaction to it) because really it’s not that different from other detective/small-town cop mysteries and i think what it really is, is that it’s a test.  everything in it is testing whether or not people are inherently good, whether they can rise above and be better.  not just: can people in a dimmer decade when it comes to LGBT-acceptance put aside their homophobia and see our protagonist as a person and not a sexuality but also smaller battles, can people with past grudges with police get past that to work with them now, etc.  i know what i want the answer to be, i know that what i need/want/am desperate to see: that people can coexist in harmony despite their differences because very few people are painted as bad, even if they’re wrong, which means their opinions can evolve because their core isn’t evil and i just--i really, really want to see that (and it’s written with a very caring hand, which means i’m hopeful it’s coming) so it’s hard to put the book down before i get to!

playlist for the dead, by michelle falkoff (pg. 106/304).  okay, so, pretty much every young adult/contemporary book i pick up is there to kind of ease my brain into sleep at the end of the day.  it’s a palette cleanse, doesn’t take a lot of processing power and is almost always big text, lotsa dialogue, and just plain easy, so i’m even less cool about judging these because i have literally no expectations for them.  i don’t want to say it’s good just because it fits the criteria of being an easy-ass read like i wanted, y’know?  plus, ya books, for me, really live or die as a totality.  it’s harder to judge them in part because it’s usually a story-focus first, rather than characters or writing, and you can’t know how that all hangs together until... you know how that all hangs together, right?  but, uh, so far so good?  i really like the way the chapters are split by the songs on the playlist and i’m not annoyed by any of the characters at all yet (which happens pretty immediately in quite a few of these things i pick up) but i probably won’t remember anything about it in a week or two?  that said, it’s serving its purpose perfectly and it’s not something i dread getting to at all (as also sometimes happens).

hope this is what you were looking for, nonnymoose!

[ecotone99]

[RF] The New Norm - Part 1

“It’s two fucking wires!”, Virgil said to Lucky who was digging for worms.

“We need worms if we’re gonna eat,” Luck replied without looking up.

The two of them arrived here about a year ago when the virus finally tipped the scales and there was no looking back. The Covid-19 virus started as a local health issue in the Wuhan province of China. The world halfassly paid attention as the news story went from being a closing story to becoming a lead after the virus had jumped ship, via international travel, and became a global pandemic in six short weeks. The scariest thing about it was it’s incubation rate and how fatal it was. Four to eight week without showing signs of infection and a 90% mortality rate. Scary was being generous.

“I’m fucking sick of pike,” Virgil said while digging through dirt and mud. It’d been raining for two days and everything held the water in it, even the air.

“Life will change once we can harvest the garlic and onions,” Lucky replied while threading a long, fat worm out of a lump of soft clay. And we’re good for water for a while now. The tarps and drums are really working well now.”

“Well aren’t you Oscar Optimist this morning,” Virgil retorted in mild irritation. “What put you in such a stellar mood?”

“Garlic and onions aren’t ready to harvest but I did find something that was.” Without looking up, Luck reached into the breast pocket of his battered army coat and slid out half a very fat, very respectable joint.

“You fucker! And exactly when were you planning on telling me?” Virgil dusted his hands on his camo cargo pants. Lucky tossed him the half dube and his zippo.

“You know,” he said with a grin. “You rarely take into consideration my entertainment.”

Virgil, squatting on his haunches shook his head slowly, his smile growing ear to ear. “We gotta find something better when the munchies kick in.”

“We could raid the old man again. He’ll be asleep by nine. Maybe find something interesting. I was also thinking we should start planting berries. Strawberries, raspberries, blueberries. That sort of thing.”

Virgil exhales deep lungfuls of smoke, “Agreed. But blueberries are a fucking bitch to grow. Cherry tomatoes make a good snack though. Idiots can grow them too.”

“Says a lot about us,” Luck said and taking the offered joint. His intense eyes wandered over the scenery. Couldn’t really be much better. The ‘old man’ was a retired horse farmer and a multi-millionaire to boot. When the ‘dynamic duo’ agreed it was time to get out of Dodge, finding this place was a chance in a million. Before the global servers went tits up, they were looking for a place in the woods, far from civi, at the end of a road.

“Doesn’t ‘the end of the road’ sound a little fucking ominous to you?” Virgil commented.

“That’s why nobody’s gonna go there” was Lucky’s logic. Actually, over the past year it seemed to become Lucky’s Logic.

So they took everything they assumed they’d needed, which for Virgil was a lot, packed it in Luck’s pickup and drove east out of the city and hoped for the best.

What they found was beyond their wildest dreams. Hundreds of acres of forest, with lakes, rivers and pastures. The old man had two barns which held about fifty horses which he cared for by himself. Fiery old guy, up at 5:00 and in bed at 21:00, never stopping all day to tend the farm. After about a month living there, Virgil and Lucky approached the old man to offer assistance in return for lodging and the single buckshot pellet that blew through Virgil’s shin still hurt when the weather changed. So much for diplomacy.

Now lying in the dirt together, both supremely surprised by the potency of Luck’s harvest, Virgil was back at it.

“It’s two fucking wires!” he exclaimed with as much vigor as his addled mind could muster, which, admittedly, wasn’t very much.

Lucky was consumed by the beauty of the rolling clouds strolling gently through the mesmerizing sky which wasn’t very mesmerizing at all.

“What?” he mumbled.

“Two fucking wires! He’s got about a billion watts of solar power down there. He’s not gonna notice if we nick a little of it.”

“What?”, Lucky eloquently retorted.

“There’s about a billion feet of wire in the big barn. We can steal a plug socket and a case, take the wire we need and bury it from here to the power relay he uses to heat his indoor pool. Then we just connect the two wires to the relay and have more electricity than we can ever use. Where’s the downside?”

Lucky thought he saw elephants in the clouds.

Virgil was on his back, trying to work out the math for his latest plan. “And if you say ‘What?’ again I’m gonna… fuck it. I can think of a lot of things to finish that sentence but I doubt I can even stand up right now. How the fuck did you grow that so strong?!??

“What?”

That night found them putting at a joint and reviewing ‘the mission’. With no security whatsoever, it was easy to steal the wire, the plug socket and a shovel for the next mission. Night time in this new normal was pitch black, with the moon and the stars serving as the only source of light. The barn was huge. Like two football fields huge.

The biggest problem was making sure the horses didn’t wake up. Especially while Virgil was humming the theme from Mission Impossible.

Lucky was at the door of the tack room, where the old man kept all the horse stuff, saddles, bridles, carrots. His eyes scanning for anything but knowing full well, from past experience, that there was nothing to scan for. He literally could have been walking around naked with a headlight strapped to his forehead.

“Can you stop humming that fucking song?” he whispered, not wanted to alarm the horses. “This is about as far from impossible as taking a shit.”

Virgil would have no part of Lucky’s Logic. He continued to hum away. Luck just rolled his eyes. Virgil had cut off the length of wire they needed at what he calculated to be about 300 feet. But 300 feet of triple strand copper wire weighs about 100 pounds so they split it in two to share the burden.

“When’s the last time you went upstairs,” Virgil asked.

“I don’t know,” Luck whispered back. “Just after we got here I think.”

“Wanna go have a peek? We’re not here often these days,” Virgil asked.

Lucky weighed the worth of his friend’s curiosity. “Peek for what?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Who knows what the old man has up there. It’s not like we’re in a rush. And I was also thinking on the way back we take a quick look for any munchies in his fridge.” Virgil shot Luck the grin that always made him shake his head and smile. “C’mon, man! What else have we got to do?”

After getting the wire and shovel in a wheelbarrow they were about to steal they both ninja’d their way back into the barn and up the stairs that lead to the apartment above the barn meant for the farmhand to live in. It was completely dark and Virgil clicked on his flashlight for a second.

“Turn that off!” Lucky forcefully whispered. “I can’t see a thing now!” Virgil knew Luck was talking about how regular light fucked up a human's innate ability to see in the dark.

Virgil, mentally agreeing with his friend, was also content that turning on his flashlight kept him from stepping on one of the numerous barn cats. He clicked it off plunging them both back to the invisible abyss.

Virgil found the door at the top of the stairs and silently twisted the knob which didn’t twist at all.

“Fuck,” he hissed. “It’s fucking locked.”

Lucky reached into his shitty canvas bag and gave Virgil the worn lockpick set he’d had since high school. Virgil had the door open in 10 seconds. The apartment was surprisingly renovated. Brand new everything, granite counter tops, solid wood kitchen cabinets, hardwood floors. Both quietly looked in every cabinet, every drawer.

Above the stainless steel fridge, Virgil let out a low whistle.

“What?” Lucky asked.

“Imma turn on the flashlight for sec, okay?” Virgil asked.

Luck shielded his eyes. “Just for a sec.”

Virgil clicked the flashlight on then off after 2 seconds. Then he started giggling.

“What?” Luck whispered again.

“It’s a 60.” Virgil offered.

“Of what?” Lucky asked

“Looks like our old friend”

“Jack?”

“Yep,” Virgil replied. “Jack Daniels is joining us for dinner.”

Lucky then began giggling too. “Fuck yeah!”

“I’m just gonna check the bathroom then we head out,” Virgil whispered after giving the bottle to Lucky.

“Sounds good”.

Virgil inched his way to the bathroom, hoping beyond hope, he’d secure some toilet paper. You can’t understand what the quality of life is when you don’t have toilet paper. The moonlight was peeking through the patio door and when Virgil got to the bathroom what he saw gave him pause for thought. There was tape across the door like you’d see in a police investigation.

“Luck!” he whispered silently. “What do you make of this?”

Lucky didn’t really care much. Though the thought of having a 60 of Jack Daniels AND toilet paper seemed to immediately become abundantly important.

“I don’t know,” he replied. “Just go have a quick peek”

This seemed to give Virgil the confidence he needed and he opened the door and stepped in.

What surprised him most as he stepped through the door was the towering pile of toilet paper he saw on the shelf at the edge of his vision. For a split second. Having a doctorate in mechanical engineering, his brain, in lightning-fast realization, determined that the tape on the door was to keep people out of the bathroom because the floor was being replaced and the only thing covering the beams meant to hold the new floor was paper. He disappeared from Lucky’s view in a split second. He was there and then he was gone. His crash to the floor below was surprisingly muted because he landed on hay. Hay for the stallion in the stable in which Virgil now found himself.

For anyone who knows anything about horses, the stallion is, by far, one of the most fearsome and dangerous animals on the planet. They’re purpose is to breed. Horse farmers purposely prevent this from happening until it’s time to happen. So you essentially have a horse, fully 1500 pounds, that is so angry because he’s horny as fuck standing four feet from Virgil. Add to this that the irate animal was sleeping and doesn’t take kindly to being shocked awake and you have a very unpleasant environment for Virgil to find himself in. And to really put the final nail in the coffin, the stable is, of course, locked from the outside.

The braying and snorting of the animal a floor below him quickly brought Lucky’s attention from the 60 in his backpack to his friend in mortal danger. Still feeling the effects of the weapons-grade weed he grew, he bounded, then fell down the stairs. Sadly, he had to admit, that when tumbling down the stairs his first thought was not of saving his friend but of hoping that the 60 didn’t break as he barreled, head first, into the wall at the base of the stairs.

As Lucky scrambled back to his feet and into the stables, Virgil was fairing far worse than his potential rescuer. The stallion was now fully awake and fully pissed at the intrusion to his miserable existence. Virgil knew well enough to not get behind the beast, his scientific mind knowing that a horse kick approached 2000 pounds per square inch. What he had never learned was that while avoiding the powerful kicks he did not realize that horses bite. He also was unaware that a stallion can easily bite off a human arm completely. So, in hindsight, he had to admit that he was happy, well, less miserable, when the horse decided that he could neutralize his invader by biting its head. Just as Virgil was uselessly trying to hold the stallion’s head, and teeth, away from his, Lucky opened the stable gate and punched the horse squarely in the eye. The result was madness. The stallion reeled up and brayed loud enough to wake the other horses who clearly felt the need to support their breeding seed and began to make noises loud enough to wake the dead. Including the old (but not quite dead) man.

Virgil and Lucky zipped through the stable gate, locked the door, and bolted to their bounty of wire. And a shovel. Watching the farm lights come on in horror, they ran, full sprint for over an hour, down the dirt road and up the hill to their camp. Exhausted, battered and bruised and pumping on adrenaline, they both lay sprawled on their backs.

“Two fucking wires!”, Luck exhaled.

Virgil reached into Lucky’s battered backpack and pulled out the 60.

“Shots?” he asked without raising his head.

And they both lay on the ground, covered in mud and horse shit, and couldn’t stop laughing.

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