#febuwhump2024day21

[pareidoliaonthemove]

Unexpected Delivery

There had been many changes when their father returned home. Some were new, some were the old status quo reasserting itself.

As Jeff had taken over the daily running of Tracy Industries and the paperwork associated with International Rescue, Scott had managed to take back some of his old duties on the Island.

One of those was unpacking the supplies Virgil regularly brought back from the mainland.

First was the perishables: foods, some of Brains’ more exotic experimental materials, whatever-the-hell it was that Gordon was ordering in to assist in rehabilitating their surrounding sea-scape. Personal deliveries came second, portioning out the mail orders; of which a not-insignificant portion was personal food stocks – Grandma still couldn’t be dissuaded from cooking, even though everyone now had more time to contribute to kitchen duties. Third was domestic consumables: toilet paper, light bulbs, cleaning supplies, and personal grooming and hygiene products – including so much deodorant. And then maintenance supplies; raw materials for production of the custom parts necessary for the maintenance of the Thunderbirds, parts for maintenance for the Villa and auxiliary buildings.

It was a comfortable routine, and one that Scott enjoyed, especially dealing with the maintenance supplies. Checking the packing slip against their internal register of projected deliveries, using the pallet-bot to deposit the large crates and bins at the appropriate areas, before unpacking the individual crates, confirming the itemised stock within, and storing them in the appropriate locations, as he updated the warehousing inventory.

It was a simple – and satisfying – job.

Today there was an extra crate. A large roughly square crate, one and one half to two metres in every dimension and solidly built. Scott frowned at it. There was no sender’s ident, and the anonymous holographic label implanted in the rough-hewn, tightly-spaced wooden slats simply read ‘International Rescue’.

Nothing was unaccounted for on the projected deliveries. There was nothing left over from previous runs, nothing on back order.

Scott checked Virgil’s collection register. This package had been collected from their mail facility at Tracy Industries Headquarters, the security assessment on this crate was attached. Nothing untoward. No radiation, no explosive compounds, no biological matter …

Thunderbird Two’s pod sensors hadn’t detected a threat, either.

“What is it?”

Scott started, jumping as the Mechanic materialised beside him, looking between Scott and the crate curiously.

A slight hesitation – he still hadn’t fully overcome his distrust of the other man, nor had the Mechanic suddenly taken a liking to him – and he explained the situation.

“Only one way to find out. If all the scans are clear.”

Scott waved his tablet at the man, who, after a second, took it, and considered the record trail. He handed the tablet back, and summoned two of his ‘scorpion’ mechas to the crate.

“Better blow them up, than us, if your scans are wrong,” was the response to Scott’s raised eyebrow.

Scott agreed without hesitation. The crate was in a secure section of the hangars, there was no danger to any of their equipment – they had learnt that the hard way, soon after Jeff had … gone on sabbatical. The two men backed off a respectful distance, and watched as the two machines surged forward, powerful pinchers forcing themselves under the lid and prising it up, before skittering around the crate to settle either side of it, like guardians.

The back of the lid was hinged, and a holographic sign projected against the rough and splintery wood. ‘A gift. From a friend.’

The two men approached cautiously. And stared in shock at what lay on the straw at the bottom of the crate.

The Hood, bound hand and foot – hands behind his back – lay half curled with in the space. His naked body bruised and bloody, the slight rise and fall of his chest the only sign the man was alive.

Scott Tracy – Commander of International Rescue, First Responder, Qualified Paramedic, and Survivor of a POW Camp – swallowed his bile as he took in the sight of the bloody and weeping bandage around the man’s head that ineffectively protected what he knew would be the bloody and empty socket where the cybernetic eye had been.

Mutely Scott and the Mechanic stared at each other, both searching for answers the other didn’t have.

How were they ever going to explain this?

Notes:

Febuwhump Day 21 “Unresponsive”.

Whoops. I totally missed posting this one on the date. Other important dates I have missed include my mothers, and my niece's birthdays. Oh well, off to the dog house!

The standard disclaimers, I do not own Thunderbirds, either the Original Series, the Movies (both Supermarionation and Live Action), or the Thunderbirds Are Go Series. (Although I do own copies on DVD.)

I do not do this for money, but for my own (in)sanity and entertainment.

#febuwhump2024 #febuwhump2024day21 #thunderbirds are go #post season 3 #fanfic #my fanfic #scott tracy #the mechanic #the hood