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katblu42 · 2 days

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Places Built for Leaving 4

AND HERE IS CHAPTER 4 (5 on AO3). Three is here. I said I'd publish it and I will because the previous chapter was angsty and here is the cure. People who are interested in TAG history may like this one because to write it I wrote a MASSIVE timeline (6000 words whew) (thanks @riallasheng and @edutainer2022 y'all are LEGENDS). In theory, I have solved all the conundrums that TAG presents with Jeff knowing the Hood and being hyper competent.

Featuring some very sneaky sneaky throwbacks to TAG (spot them!) plus a very charming Penelope that was an utter delight to write.

ENJOY!

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four: tea and biscuits

July 2035

Scott’s 4 years old. Unbeknownst to his parents, he’d crept out of his room with baby John, and now stood, quiet at the door of Dad’s office as they yelled.

“I can’t keep having this conversation Lucy.”

“Your son is going to be born in a month, and Scott barely even knows who you are!”

“Lucy, he’s four years old. He can’t even read. I’m sorry, but I don’t want to fight about this. You know Belah and I are closing our patent and production deal tomorrow.”

“Don’t give me that shit, you know I don’t want him around. I don’t like what he’s doing. You see the good in people and it’s your biggest weakness. Hologram tech? I’ll give him that its clever but Jesus. Even Kyrano agrees that you’d be better off kicking him out and hiring a lawyer to deal with the fallout, and he’s his fucking brother.”

“I’m about to close a deal that’ll make us billionaires and you’re mad that the guy who helped invent the fucking tech is a little bit weird?”

“He’s more than weird, he’s creepy as shit! I don’t like the way he lurks around. I get it Jeff, I really do, holograms are amazing but you really think that Belah isn’t going to use it wrong? You really don’t think he’s skulking around with the millions you and I fucking gave him, blowing off criminals with a fucking projected identity or whatever the hell he does? They think there’s gonna be a war soon, Jeff. You want to be on the right side.”

“I’m on the side of the American government, and I’d appreciate if you didn’t talk so badly about my friend.”

“Oh my fucking god you are… insufferable Jeff. He’s a slimy snake in the grass and you can’t even see it! He’s pulled a fucking hood over your eyes! Can you imagine how you’ll look, siding with the guy that’ll probably end up selling nuclear secrets. And Jeff, I don’t think you’re doing the right thing anyway. Holograms are revolutionary. We should be opening the patent for free.”

“… you didn’t hear the part where I said billionaires? We’ve got three children!”

“And my parents are millionaires in their own right! So are we! We’re not struggling Jeff and we never will be. It’s awful how much you’ve let Belah’s greed influence you.”

“I don’t want to argue about this.”

“And don’t forget that I gave you the fucking start-up money for this business.”

“Oh don’t throw that in my face again-“

“Yeah I will throw it in your face! You forget that I’ve got the engineering degree. It’s the most revolutionary tech in the entire world and every night I picture how it’ll… do so much good. You want to throw that away.”

“Not all of us grew up rich. I just want the best life for my children.”

“Your children that you never fucking see.”

Scott turns away. Daddy clearly wasn’t in the mood to tell him a story and Mummy had the voice she only ever uses when she hides in her room with a sore head. He patters back to his room, to where John was still curled up under his blanket, ginger curls just poking out the top.

Never mind. He’ll have a new friend soon, anyway.

*****

August 2036

Baby Virgil is bouncing in Lucy’s arms, and 5-year-old Scott is bounding around the small kitchen at Gran Roca, filled with cake and sweets and music.

“When’s Daddy coming home?” He turns to his mother, quizzically.

“Sorry sweetie. He’s out with Uncle Kyrano. He’ll be back later.” Lucy sighs. She’ll never let Scott know about the late nights, the fights, the tears, and the mountains of paperwork and lawyers they were trying desperately to deal with. Belah Gaat really brought a fight to the courtroom. They were going to lose billions when they finally managed to eject him from Tracy Industries and all the associated patents and rights that entitled him to. But Lucy was determined not to drag her children and name down in a world slowly spiralling towards war. It was her money and her business, too.

Scott sighs, a sound far too loaded for such a small child. Lucy’s heart is aching and today was supposed to be her youngest’s first birthday. “Don’t worry baby. We’ll save him some cake for when Grandma arrives later, okay?”

Scott nods. He’s bored with the conversation now and runs back to stare at the chubby baby bouncing on her lap. “Why’s it look different?”

“Virgie’s a boy, sweetie, not a thing.”

“My teacher taught me to spell Virgy, see!” He takes a napkin and a crayon, and with a fisted grip, carefully dictates each letter. “V for violin, I for ink, R for rabbit, G for goat, I for ink, and L for leaf!”

“Well done Scotty!” she claps from where her hands are clasped around Virgil’s stomach.

“Why does Virgy look different? Johnny looks like me.”

John doesn’t, but Lucy knows what he’s talking about. “He’s got brown eyes like me. You’ve got blue eyes like Johnny and Daddy.”

“Why?”

“Because sometimes, babies look like their Mummy, and sometimes, like Daddy.”

“Hmm. It looks weird.”

“He’s a new friend for you. He won’t look weird when he’s grown up like you and Johnny.”

“I like Johnny better.”

“That’s alright sweetie. I’m sure you’ll like Virgy soon.”

Scott doesn’t answer, choosing to gently reach out and touch the fine, wispy hairs on his 1-year-old brother’s head. “He’s almost bald, like Daddy’s friend.”

Lucy can’t help but laugh, and Virgil cranes his neck around to stare at why his seat was making noise. “He’ll have lots of brown hair soon, like you.”

Boring. Scott glances at the baby, who hasn’t broken eye contact in the last minute, and runs off, to go play with his toys again.

*****

October 2039

“I don’t like the planes, Scotty.”

Virgil’s 4 years old now and sitting in 8-year-old Scott’s lap, not his mother’s. They’re huddled together on Grandpa’s couch in Kansas, with Johnny leaning into Scott’s side, terrified.

“Don’t worry Virgie. That’s just Daddy in the Air Force. He’ll keep you safe.”

Scott’s not sure what planes they can hear flying overhead, but he doesn’t share it with his little brothers. Grandma doesn’t watch the news, but he sometimes put their old television on at night, to see images of destruction in Europe and a blown-up satellite plunged into the sea by the west coast. He’s not sure what ‘casualties’ means, but it sure was a big number.

“I want Mummy.”

“Mummy’s at home in Arizona, Virgie. She’s gotta help Uncle K keep the business running while Daddy is fighting.”

Little Virgil’s got tears in his eyes. John’s silent by his side, jumping occasionally at any noise. “I don’t want Daddy to fight.”

Scott runs his hands though Virgil’s brown hair, trying his best to sooth the young child. “Daddy is a hero. He’s saved lots of people. He’s got fancy Captain badges.”

Virgil sniffs. “I don’t like planes.”

“That’s okay Virgy. You can like cars like Grandpa.”

“I’m scared.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll look after you. I’ll fly planes with Daddy and keep you and Johnny safe.” And he means it.

*****

June 2040

Gordon Tracy is screaming his little lungs out.

“Dad, I don’t like him.” They’re at the ranch, Scott’s hand clasped in Virgil’s, and peering down at the newest member of the Tracy clan. “He’s too noisy.”

“He’s just a baby Scott. He’ll calm down.”

Scott screws his face up. “He better.”

Jeff’s almost as exhausted as 4 months post-partum Lucy, jetting from the World Council courts to Arizona once a week to where his three, now four sons waited. The negotiations were taking their toll. It pained him to leave his children – they’d only been 6 months free of a world without war, but it had to be done. As a representative of the American nation, he was an instrumental figure in the creation of a Global Defence Force, and expected to be there for its initial set up proceedings. The headache of Bereznik and their lack of full participation in the Council proceedings was just another pain in the proverbial ass. Creating a world free of nuclear weapons was not an easy job. As the holder of the patent for holotechnology, it was also his job to oversee its free distribution to the newly created world, as a symbol of goodwill and cooperation.

Scott grips Virgil’s hand a little tighter, who is beginning to become uninterested in the screaming blond in Dad’s arms. “Will you play with me and Virgil?”

But it meant sacrificing his sons.

“I’ll play when Mummy comes home.”

Virgil’s bored and tugs his hand out of Scott’s to potter towards the piano.

“Okay then.” Scott rolls his eyes, a bad habit he’s learn from Penny during the English investor’s visits to the ranch. Jeff doesn’t say anything about it. All he’s thinking about is his plans to join the astronaut core. As soon as next year, he could be cavorting around in space with his new friend Lee. The thought of leaving his boys again broke his heart. He could only comfort himself with the thought of the world he was giving them.

*****

September 2049

Dad’s not home. He’s off in the GDF, building two shiny new ships that Virgil never wants to lay eyes on. John’s not home. He’s off at MIT, studying advanced physics and communications and being smarter than Virgil ever will be. Grandma’s not home. She’s off in Phoenix with Gordon and Alan, dragging their fish brother to swim meets with a curious 5-year-old in tow. Scott’s not home. He’s off studying math, flying more than walking for his ATPL, learning first aid, and being far too competent for his own good.

Virgil’s home. He’s lying face up on the bathroom floor with the door open, trying to breathe and even out the rhythm of his racing heart. He can’t remember what happened to the little kid who liked playing hot wheels with Scott and winding up Gordon in circles until he snapped. He missed when his favourite colour was blue and his aqua permanent markers were the coolest thing in the whole world, because that was the colour of Scotty’s plane and they were perfect for scribbling on little post-it notes and leaving on the fuselage. He used to play Dad’s ancient PlayStation 4 and be mad when none of the baby dragons in Spyro shared his name.

He remembers the first time that Grandma and Scott got lost, instruments failing in the early morning fog and forced to circle until the sky cleared. He supposes he feels something like that. His mum’s dead and gone and Scott might as well be with the distance between them. He lightly bangs his head against the floor, hands shaking. There’s smog in his brain and the world is getting louder and louder and louder and his thoughts are the only thing he can notice and the cicadas won’t shut up and it’s hot and his shirt is sticking to his chest and he misses Scott more than anything and he wants to disappear so fucking bad it’s eating a hole in his heart.

He's supposed to be alright. Mum died ages ago, the school therapist said. He hasn’t told his father how much her words stung because he might just start World War 4. He misses Scott more than breathing, and when Grandma finds him later, sobbing his heart out in a ball on the floor, she’s not sure what to say.

*****

March 2050

They’re sitting on the floor of an English mansion, pretending to like British tea and Lord Hugh’s obligatory small talk. Penny is far more interesting company, her hair cut into a neat blond bob and recounting how she slapped that horrid boy so hard the red mark is probably still there. Scott laughs in the appropriate moments, all 18 years old and pretty and the subject of an unrequited crush on Penny’s part. She likes the 14-year brother just as much, but she suspects his sensibilities don’t lean towards women. And Penny’s calculating and clever even at 15 – not silly enough to entertain fantasies that don’t have a hope of fruition.

“Anyway Virgil darling, Parker said he’d take you out again in FAB 0 this afternoon. He tells me you’re far too gentle with the clutch but have an excellent technique for gear changes.”

“I think he said the same thing about me when I was 14,” Scott laughs again, unfolding his long limbs from their crossed position. Dad’s motivations for sending Virgil to England for 6 months weren’t the same as when he did his stint, but Parker was determined he’d get something useful out of it besides charming company and Penelope’s empathy. “Just because he used that car as a getaway doesn’t mean we have to.”

“Alleged getaway sweetheart. Another biscuit, Virgil?”

Virgil nods, and takes a delicate piece of shortbread from the silver tray. His posture is straight and his skin is brighter, and he smiles so much more it warms Penny’s sentimental heart. She’d fallen in love with each and every one of the pathetic American boys ever since her father had invested in Jeff’s company. John was her very secret favourite, but she’d never let them know that. She’d been there when they lost their mother, having been through the same thing as a very young child, and now, was picking the pieces up of a broken Virgil and carefully gluing them back together.

She’d never admit it, but she enjoyed it. Perhaps you could call her manipulative, but she liked to think it was simply a professional interest in psychology. Like fixing a smashed teapot. Taking all the pieces, scrutinising them under a practiced eye, and finding just the right adhesive to put it together, better and stronger. She’d never admit it, but she’d never forgive herself if she failed.

Penny realised very quickly that the glue she needed was Scott. So, she’d gathered up all her wits and invited the charming boy over for Spring Break. Scott Carpenter Tracy. Turn to page 6 of her diary.

Almost as smart as her. Occasionally lacking emotional intelligence. Far too obsessed with duty in that horrifically American way, although she suspects it has something to do with the larger-than-life legacy of his ridiculous father. Tall to the point where it’s embarrassing. She senses she could tell him a secret and he’d take it to the tomb, but Penny is all too aware of the grave robbers that liked to sniff around the sensibilities of rich celebrities. He’s definitely got some parental issues he’s pushed deep, deep down, but she’ll uncover that in years to come, perhaps with a glass of wine to ply him. Although she suspects he’s a bourbon man.

She’s not certain he’s all good guy like Jeff – there’s a fundamental difference in the father and son psych in every person she’s ever analysed – and this son would burn it all down for the people he cares about. Oh yes. If he trains the anger boiling inside of him, he could be the most calculating soldier the GDF has ever seen (if he goes that way, as she so suspects). If not, then he’s going to burn up like a comet in the sky. Penny’s not sure which way it’ll swing, but she’s invested in the outcome.

“You’re always welcome to come over for tea Virgil darling.” Virgil Grissom Tracy takes up 2 pages of her diary. Penny’s always been a sucker for a boy with a touch of sadness in his soul – he’s a middle child in his bones, and Penny can relate to the feeling of being physically shorter. Penny’s brimming with hard earned self-confidence, and she hopes some of it can rub off on the big, quiet 14-year-old. She can see a hidden strength and fierce love for his siblings which she simply adores, but is a touch concerned about the hero worship. The day he goes off and develops his own interests will be the best thing possible for his psych. She’d been utterly charmed by his deep voice and talent at her white baby grand – perhaps she’ll gift it to him when all this was over.

“Thanks Penny,” Virgil smiles, taking another biscuit.

Ugh. Horrifically inarticulate. She’d teased some emotional confessions out, while she stroked his hair with his head in her lap. Plied him a good film and carefully worded, edited, confessions of her own and he’d spilled his fears.

Penny enjoys playing people as much as Virgil likes playing music. “I love you two dearly, you silly Americans.”

Scott giggles a little into his tea. Disgusting manners. “I love you too Penny.” And he turns to his brother. “I love you, Virgil.”

Penny smiles. Perhaps they’ll be alright after all.

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katblu42 · 2 days

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Resurface 22 - Rescue

What went before

In which 11 year old Scott’s physics and construction methods are put under a little strain…

💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙

“Helmet on, Scotty!”

Scott paused mid-clamber into the kayak and came back to take his his cycle helmet from Virgil, fastening it on before giving a big thumbs up. Virgil tried to tighten the strap under his own chin but his hands were sweaty and clumsy and he was relieved when Scotty’s long nimble fingers appeared and made it just right. Scott knocked gently on the top of the helmet just like Dad always did and they both chanted “Use your head - Use a helmet.”

Scott climbed into the seat at the front and the flying machine wobbled alarmingly. Virgil wondered if it might have been better to have launched from a flatter part of the roof but… well Scott said it had to be high and this was the highest bit. Too late now.

“Ok, can you steady her for me?”

Virgil nodded. Then squeaked a “yes” as he realised Scott was looking elsewhere. He clutched the back edge of the kayak and pushed downwards using his own weight to counter his brother’s. He glanced at the safety line wrapped around the chimney and secured with a tumble hitch knot - luckily that was a knot he did know and so he knew how to quickly release it when Scotty gave him the signal. Not yet though, he’d need to be in the boat first.

A crescendo of whining filled his ears as Scott started the lead drone and the rest of the swarm picked up the signal and followed. Sure enough the nose of the kayak lifted slightly into the air, so instead of pointing straight down the pitch of the roof it now looked off into the distance.

Maybe the math did work after all?

Scott looked back at him, eyes aflame with excitement. Virgil couldn’t help grinning back - they were going to do this! At his brother’s nod he climbed carefully into the back of the kayak, and settled into the seat, bracing his feet against the footrest and his knees against the sides.

Scott looked back and gave him a nearly-actual-wink “Ready First Officer Virgie?”

“Ready Captain Scott!”

Scott twisted back to face the front and stuck three fingers in the air, then two, one… he swooshed his hand downwards and Virgil pulled on the working end of the knot and it unravelled, smooth as anything.

The flying machine jolted forwards and downwards and Virgil’s stomach jumped into his neck but then the front wobbled back up again as the drones increased their intensity to fight the sudden pull of gravity. He could feel the part of the kayak immediately under his bottom go thud-thud-thudthudthudthud down the ridges of the tiles until it stopped halfway. The drones strained as Scott increased the power and pushed them forward as well as up and there was a tugging feeing which made Virgil wonder whether the flying machine was trying to escape from the claws of a monster.

Then there was a crack which made him jump and then a tearing noise and the machine slid forwards suddenly, but one of the wings stayed behind and everything tilted sideways. The drones were swaying wildly, all terrifying spinning blades and their pitch raised up another notch to frantic and it filled Virgil’s head with stinging fuzz. He couldn’t help squealing in fear but that was nothing compared to the howl of pain and horror from in front of him.

Without even thinking he dived forward and wrapped his arms around Scott’s waist just as the kayak flipped over and dumped Virgil on the roof tiles. His legs were trapped beneath it. His arms and neck and back and every muscle in him screamed at the sudden strain and he couldn’t work out why but just squeezed his eyes shut and held on tight because as long as they were together it would be alright.

The outer edge of the gutter was pressing into his cheek and Virgil fought against the relentless monster that was trying to pull Scott away from him.

💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙💚💙

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katblu42 · 2 days

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Places Built for Leaving 3

Chapter 3 ahead! On AO3 it'll be marked as Chapter 4 because there's a prologue. Every chapter has a name so that should limit confusion. I'm also gonna publish chapter 4 (AO3 5) tonight because I've had the worst day and I need some encouragement HAHA. Previous chapters are here if you prefer reading on Tumblr.

CW: references to mental illness and panic attacks

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three: good company

Scott – December 2054 – entry 5

hey dad

They told me I should write more. With a pencil and everything! I’m not on suicide watch anymore so I’m allowed to write without someone standing there, which is nice. I’m not sure why they want me to write more. The cynical part of me says they’re gonna read everything I write when I’m asleep but I’m trying not to think that hard. In fact, I’m trying not to think too much at all.

It’s a Tuesday. I think it’s the 22nd. They said I’m doing a lot better and I agree. I’m sure the doctor told you already but they’ve submitted my PTSD and OCD diagnoses to the GDF. They said I should be able to get out of the facility in maybe around a week when the GDF approves my medical leave. And then the waiting begins. Doctor thinks it’ll take at least 6 months to get discharged. I know I get paid for leave but fuck, dad. I want to go. I want to go so bad it keeps me awake at night. I want to go home. I WANT to get better, and my therapist says that’s a sign that I really am. I don’t get many intrusive thoughts now and I’ve stopped suddenly losing myself in my head. I’m proud of myself. That’s lame as hell but I really am.

My breathing is getting better. I only feel like I can’t take a deep breath when I’m in a bad headspace. The cognitive therapy really helps me keep my mind focused on the present, not on the tightness in my chest. It’s weird. I was so convinced I must have fucked up my lungs. It’s strange what the human mind can do when under a lot of stress. And that stress combined with the PTSD is what made me break down in November. But you probably know this already.

I’m sad I can’t come to Los Angeles with everyone for Christmas. Maybe we should do a January Christmas. Maybe at the ranch. Sometimes I find myself thinking about Kansas and I’m sad Grandma sold it. But I understand. Therapist tells me that places sometimes form triggers. I’m learning the lingo and everything. I hope Ally is keen to start his astronaut school. He’s turning out to be just as ambitious as you. I’m happy that he could learn through a school and not through a war. Gordy keeps spamming me with a million pictures of Los Angeles. And I know he’s an annoying piece of shit but I truly can feel my spirit lifting when I hear from him. Good kid. I haven’t spoken to Grandma, but I hope she still likes living there. Tell Virgy to text me more.

How is Gran Roca? Gordy said Thunderbird 4 was finished and waiting underground below the ranch to be moved to Tracy Island. Poor little thing. What a funny place to store a submarine. John is close to finishing his doctorate, right? He must be excited for Thunderbird 5 to be finished.

God, I sound boring. I forget how hard it is to just sit and chat.

I want a fucking hug. I wanna wear sweatpants and watch the sun with Virgy. I want to fly Thunderbird 1 and I wanna forget the last couple of years.

I love you dad. I’ll see you soon.

*****

February 2055

Recovery is not linear.

Sometimes, Scott was good company, the life and soul of his siblings. He hopes the feeling can come back permanently, the curtains open in his beating heart and ready to accept love back in his life again. He feels it when he’s with Dad, he feels it when Gordon’s flicking water onto his face by the side of a pool in Los Angeles, and he feels it when he’s side by side with John, marvelling at a newly completed dissertation. Virgil hadn’t been there for that wonderful week in early January, and Scott had soon been stolen away, busy with more doctor’s appointments and military hearings at Dad’s request.

And sometimes, Scott feels cursed. He feels it when he’s in front of the GDF high command, hearing the events of Bereznik and his ‘achievements’ in combat as they so described it. He feels it when his medical history is being deconstructed in front of his eyes, deciding whether or not his discharge would be honoured. He feels it when he’s shaking, crying, struggling to get a full breath, and replaying events over and over and over. He feels it when he’s sitting alone in the lounge, waiting for his brother to emerge.

But he’s trying. He’s trying so damn hard it’s exhausting. His weekly call with his private therapist, recommended by Jeff, steadily worked in lessening the load on his chest. He could confide in John. Gordon lifted his spirits. Alan made him proud to be human again. And Virgil? Virgil gave him a purpose.

He stands up and gently knocks on Virgil’s door. Silence reigns from inside.

“Hey Virg?” he stands, hesitant and hovering at the door. “You wanna get take-away?”

He hears a rustling from inside, as Virgil unravels himself from what he presumes is a blanket cocoon. When the door creaks open, his hair is tussled and his eyes are puffy.

“Yeah.” His deep voice cracks slightly.

Scott’s voice is soft. “What would you like? I don’t know the food here.”

“Like some tofu noodles from somewhere… please.”

“Alright,” Scott smiles as gently as he can. When Virgil closes the door again, he straightens up his posture, not realising he was bending down as much as he could to look small.

He’s quick to find a restaurant in the neighbourhood that does delivery, while Virgil presumably simmers some more with the door closed. His leg is persistently bouncing, and he takes a deep breath through his nose.

Sit with your feelings, his therapist had said. Make yourself feel as awful as possible. Think to yourself I can’t breathe. Over and over. Repeat it until you start feeling it. And then realise how despite it all, you’re still alive, you’re not asphyxiated on the floor, you’re here to fight it all another day. And then keep breathing. In and out.

In and out. In and out. Scott continues the thought until the doorbell rings, and Virgil emerges to the smell of food. They sit and eat noodles in silence, with some obscure television show playing in the background, until Scott can’t leave the moment hanging any longer.

“Do you… maybe wanna talk about it?” Scott’s desperately trying to think back on what had been said to him in December when his mental health was on the floor, but he can’t seem to remember the specifics of the military psychiatrists presiding over his every word.

Virgil doesn’t answer immediately, choosing to finish another bite of his food. When he does, he’s slow and hesitant. “No, not really Scott.”

“Okay.” He’ll push the issue another time.

Virgil surprises him by piping up. “What about you?”

“Me?”

“Do you wanna talk about it? I haven’t seen you since October since I didn’t go to Los Angeles for New Year. You look better.”

Scott’s honest when he answers, “I feel better.” Truthfully, he’d like to add, and you look worse, but he holds his tongue. “They put me on LIMDU after I got back to France and like, having the space to think while I was just being a glorified mechanic compounded everything. It’s a lot, over there. I guess I didn’t properly deal with it when it happened, so I developed some ugly reactions and it all came to a head. The facility really helped though.”

“Did it?” Scepticism shone through his features.

“It did. And Dad. All things going well, I’ll get my discharge this month, and then I can really take the next year to really heal and train with Dad and Lee. Since strictly speaking,” Scott laughs, “I need to pass a physical and mental to fly Thunderbird 1 with Dad in charge. At the moment I’m really on track to do it.”

“Dad said you have trouble breathing?”

“Oh, that. Yeah, military therapist said it’s a stress reaction, like OCD. I’d describe it as… it feels like my lungs are only filling up halfway? Like a hunger for air. So I get freaked out and anxious. But my private therapist thinks I’ve started to head towards remission since I only have trouble with breathing in bad moments. If I keep working, I should be able to have it completely under control soon. Dad will only let me fly Thunderbird 1 if I’m completely stable so I’m working really hard.”

“That’s good.”

“Virgil, like… it’s really hard to sit here and just chat like you’re completely okay. If I’m honest, you look like how I should look. And I’ve got proper PTSD.”

Virgil sighs. The anger of earlier has deflated, and he looks defeated, eyes eroded from lack of sleep and tears. “That’s the thing Scott. I hate how okay you are.”

“Trust me Virgil, I’m not okay. I’m healing, but I’m not perfect.”

“Scott, you’ve combed your fucking hair. Like… I’m just tired and overworked and I’m sorry I snapped at you.”

“It’s okay Virgil.”

“I didn’t go to Los Angeles because I didn’t want to face Dad and take any attention away from you. Dad only has eyes for you right now even though he’s the reason you’re so unwell, and I probably would have yelled at him.”

“I don’t blame Dad, truly.”

“I do. He’s got these big ambitions but didn’t even ask if we want them.”

“It’s hard to believe, sure, but I want it. I was born to fly. And if I get to help people in the process, then I’ll take that.”

“Hm.”

“And honestly, Dad doesn’t mind that you’re here. I know he’s all gruff and work work work, but the only thing he was disappointed at was that you haven’t sent him pictures.”

“I don’t want to. I guess I don’t really know what I want.”

“It’s fine to say you want to do art, Virgil. If Dad’s the problem, tell me. I’ll talk to him.”

“Nah, don’t worry.”

Scott has a sneaking suspicion he’s misunderstood, or Virgil’s leaving something out. If Scott’s a GDF pilot, then Virgil’s an artist, the antithesis to all things crisp and sharp and military. But Scott’s never been invested in that world, and he’s not sure where that leaves his closest brother.

“Virgil, I know you don’t want to talk about it, but this isn’t…. like when you went to England, right? You’re okay? I don’t have to…” he shrugs, “You know.” Scott’s clumsy with his words, not wanting to step on a fine hair trigger. He’s not even sure how healed the metaphorical wound is.

“If you’re asking what I think you are, then yes. I’ll be fine.”

Scott notices the lack of the present tense. “Can I help?”

“I… don’t think so.”

Scott decides to drop the issue – he’d press for answers when the tension has simmered down and it wasn’t like pressing salt into a bleeding cut. The TV is playing some unidentifiable show, but it’s taken the entire time they’ve been talking for Scott to notice it wasn’t even in English.

“Since when did you like watching French television?” Scott’s a fluent speaker, from his time in Paris. He’s got a horrific accent and frequently was chastised for his occasional conjugation issues, but he’s good enough to have only just registered the language as foreign.

“I learnt French last year.”

“WHAT? Why?”

Virgil shrugs. “Just felt like it.”

“Nobody just feels like learning what Parker would call ‘that bleeding frog nonsense’.”

“I used to watch the French news, just in case.”

Ah.

“… looking for me?”

“Are you gonna make me say it?” Virgil’s angry again, and Scott’s quick to notice. He deflects immediately.

“You any good at it?”

“B2.”

“Jesus and you’ve been learning for 2 years? Pounding the fucking textbooks.”

“Might be useful one day.”

Scott smiles. “When you’re in the Louvre.”

“Sure.”

Again, Scott’s certain in his bones that he’s missing something. “What other side-questing have you been doing unknown to us?”

“Bit of tinkering here and there.”

“That reminds me. I was thinking about the Austin before.”

Virgil looks up. He hasn’t heard that name in years and was actively trying to forget it. “That old piece of shit? Probably rotting. Why’s that?”

“I was just thinking about it earlier. Thinking about that drive.”

“I don’t really worry about that thing anymore.”

“Maybe you should get back into cars? Could be something fun to do. Keep your mind off uni work.”

“Yeah I already am.”

“…. you only said tinkering.”

“I work at a boat shed. Oldies down there have project cars and they let me work on them.”

“How often?”

“All weekend, usually.”

He’s inching closer and closer to the problem. “Virgil, when do you sleep?”

He either doesn’t hear Scott’s question, or chooses to ignore it. “I like being down at the shed. One of them even has a real nice Cessna which she lets me help with.”

“You speak French, you work on planes, AND you WORK full stop?”

“Yep.” Virgil continues to eat his stone-cold noodles, oblivious to Scott’s incredulity.

“Why didn’t you tell me any of this?”

“Why would I? You’re in the Airforce. You’re busy. I’m just doing the same.”

“Is this what you meant before… with what you said? I’m so sorry Virgil.”

Scott’s almost on the verge of tears, but his brother is stone cold emotionless. You’re not there for me. You don’t care about what I’m doing. So, I stopped telling you. The road home doesn’t lead to Scott anymore – just a forgotten farm and brothers scattered all across the globe. He’s not sure when they fell apart, but he’s struck with the urge to grasp his brother into the tightest hug and tell him he’ll never let go again.

“It’s not that deep.” Scott’s never pegged Virgil for a liar, but he seems to have gotten a lot better at it, or at least, at underestimating his brother’s ability to see them for what they are.

“I’m so fucking sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“I care about your hobbies.”

“Scott, I don’t give a shit if you care about my hobbies.”

Scott senses there’s more. “…but?”

Again with the sigh. “Let’s stop talking about this.”

“Please Virgil.”

“Let’s watch a movie.”

“Virgil…”

“Movie, Scott.”

In and out. Just keep fucking breathing. Virgil shifts away from him to lean into the opposite side of the couch, and Scott’s skin fizzes like popping candy. There’s ants invading the space under his skin and he stands up, excusing himself to go to the bathroom. The walls are closing in and he closes his eyes as his head spins.

dear dad.

Dad, I can’t fucking breathe. I’ve been ignoring Virgil for months and I can’t believe I’ve been so selfish. I’m not the most important person in the world, he is, and I know that but I’ve been ignoring it on the other side of the planet. He thinks he can’t come to me. Oh Dad. He thinks he doesn’t have a home anymore.

Dad, he’s everything to me. He’s my entire reason for anything. If I lost him I’d throw myself of a cliff and smile. I’d sacrifice myself in a heartbeat. Jesus. I’m so fucking… I swear I never want him in IR. Because I won’t be able to help myself. I’d destroy everything you’ve ever built just to get him home safe. Fuck you, dad. I’d destroy myself for any of you.

I’m so sorry.

And Scott Tracy cries.

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katblu42 · 2 days

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It's not easy being green.

Common ground.

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katblu42 · 2 days

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Calling all chronic creatives - here's how to up your crochet game!

I'm an avid crocheter, but holding the hook for long periods of time became exhausting and painful. Being chronically ill, losing the ability to enjoy my hobbies was tough for me accept.

My husband took me to the craft store and we purchased a ergonomic crochet handle. This handle needed to fit my criteria;

able to hold a variety of hook sizes

hold up to high tension crochet projects (I do a lot of amigurumi crochet, which you need to complete with tight tension)

reduce my wrist/hand pain

reduce the amount of grip strength needed to hold the hook to avoid fatigue

This ergonomic crochet handle *seemed* to tick all these boxes. It was quite an expensive purchase and to be honest, I was disappointed in it in all aspects.

The purchased handle uses small rubber stoppers to hold the crochet hook in place, but as you are crocheting the hook works loose and spins around inside it. The handle itself was too small, making it painful to hold. I had to use a lot of grip strength to keep it in my hand, which is what I was trying to avoid by purchasing the darn thing. The little knobbly bit at the end really dug into my hand and hurt. It was so annoying to use and I gave up on it altogether after three days of using it (not to mention one of the rubber pieces broke apart within hours).

I expressed my disappointment to my husband, and he decided to come to my rescue! Over the course of a week, he designed me his own ergonomic crochet handle in a computer program called CAD. He then printed it out using his 3D printer. I can't even begin to tell you how much I love this new handle - its a game changer!

During the design process, he took into consideration all of my complaints about the disappointing handle and my criteria that I had listed. The handle he designed is bigger, so it uses less grip strength to hold it in place which also reduces my pain.

Instead of using rubber stoppers like the other handle, he designed a 'lock and key' system for keeping the crochet hooks in place and it works fabulously! The hook never moves and I'm really rough with my crochet hooks. It holds up to my high tension crochet projects and I have completed many amigurumi with it, even small, intricate items. Since it is designed with the lock and key system, my husband was easily able to print different keys to be able to hold multiple sizes. I've got keys ranging from 1.25mm all the way up to 6mm!

I can now crochet for hours on end and I swear my crochet skills have gotten so much better.

After expressing my delight at the crochet handle my husband designed for me, both him and I want others to be able to experience the freedom that I now have when crocheting. With chronic illnesses, its important for you to be able to continue with your passions as much as possible, so we have decided to make this crochet handle a sellable physical item for others to enjoy.

Here's the link to purchase one if you would like to give it a go!

Each crochet handle will come with the hook sizes;

1.25mm

2mm

3mm

4mm

4.25mm

5mm

6mm

If you want other hook sizes, send us a message and we can design one.

The cost of the handle and keys covers the cost of the 3D printing material, we are not making a profit off of this because we want as many people suffering from chronic illness to be able to enjoy crocheting again. We are happy to post internationally as we are based in New Zealand, send us a message before purchasing so that I can get you the cost of shipping.

I hope you will love this crochet handle and hook set as much as I have!

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katblu42 · 2 days

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‘I close my eyes- only for a moment and the moments gone’

Is it the best thing I’ve drawn? Nah. Is it the worst? Not by a long shot!

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katblu42 · 3 days

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☺️ There's also this wonderful art by @godsliltippy that she did for me.

Thunderfam, I am feeling very frustrated today for a variety of reasons. I would love it if you can help by sending me any of your brilliant works where Virgil plays the piano. Art, fics, anything else I haven't considered I would appreciate it all for me to have lovely unfrustrated fluffy feels. TOS and TAG things are both fine. It's just my thing where I go awwwww and melt. Thank you 😊

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katblu42 · 3 days

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I have a feeling you may have seen Symphony before, but you may not have seen this one . . .

It touches on grief, but is more about happy memories of Mom.

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katblu42 · 3 days

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A Little Revenge

It had been intended as an escape from whatever doom was poised over his head.

Snorkelling or diving, even doing an inspection of Tracy Island’s underwater environs in Thunderbird Four was Gordon’s favourite way to avoid irate brothers, or, god forbid, grandmother or sister. Once Scott and Dad had gotten over their reflexive panic of ‘Gordon’s in the ocean; sharks are in the ocean. Oh-mi-god, Gordon’s gonna be eaten by a shark’, Gordon had more or less been left to roam their marine backyard at will, provided he took a variety of safety equipment and checked in at regular intervals with John on Thunderbird Five.

So when Gordon had announced he was going to spend the morning snorkelling on the northern reef, he hadn’t expected anyone to join him.

That his companion was Virgil was of particular concern.

His immediate older brother was a competent diver (Gordon had made sure everyone was safe in the water), and he did take an interest in the marine environment – although it usually took the form of raiding whatever footage Gordon had taken on his explorations and inspections for inspiration for new paintings or music. So it wasn’t totally unprecedented.

What worried Gordon was the fact that a week earlier, he had … miscalculated a prank designed to loosen up Virgil’s nerves (which the man could have used as musical instrument – probably a cello, given his size). Instead of a cute little brightly coloured foam volcano fizzing cheerfully from a tiny paint tin, it had somehow fermented into a seemingly never-ending explosive geyser hurling massive globs of foam throughout the lounge. And given Virgil’s preferred perch on the mezzanine, the fountain had an extra height advantage. It managed to coat liberal portions of the photovoltaic glass ceiling, only to then rain down onto everything below.

Of course, Alan had quickly dobbed Gordon in, playing Judas to save his own scrawny neck, and Eos had happily provided the film evidence. John evidently busy reviewing footage to ensure his own possessions were prank free.

An alarmingly magenta hued Scott had informed Gordon that Gordon would personally clean up all traces of the mess, with his toothbrush and tongue if he made one – just one, Gordon! – sound of protest.

Virgil had contented himself with collecting up his ruined canvas and disappearing to parts unknown, leaving his ruined boots at the edge of the contamination. His clothes had appeared in the laundry with everyone else’s, but the man himself didn’t put in an appearance until breakfast the next morning.

And Gordon had been walking on eggshells ever since. It had taken three days, working around rescues, to restore the lounge to its original colour scheme, and hoping Scott’s inspection wouldn't include free climbing the rock walls to ensure that the portions of the rough-hewn mountain not visible from the ground levels were cleaned.

And Virgil hadn’t said a word.

Well, not about the incident.

Scott raged, Grandma lectured, John threatened, Alan ‘duded’, Kayo’s mere presence threatened Gordon to even think about putting a foot out of line and Brains was, inevitably, oblivious to the whole affair. While Virgil … carried on as if nothing had happened.

Gordon wasn’t fooled, as calm and easy-going as Virgil was, there was no way he was going to let what had happened go without extracting revenge.

And Virgil was of the school of thought that held that revenge should be swift and proportional to the crime. So for it to have been a week since the ‘incident’ with no payback … it was uncharacteristic. And worrying.

So to say Gordon was nervous was an understatement.

So if Gordon spent rather longer than usual checking over Virgil’s gear before they got in the small boat to head around to the north of the Island, it was understandable. After all, he was going to be on the exact opposite side of the island from the rest of his family, with the one person who was currently out for his blood.

Other than the Hood.

And the Mechanic – man, did he have a thing about wrecking Gordon’s pride and joy!

And not to forget Parker.

And Sherbet.

But Virgil didn’t have anything sinister – like, for instance a length of chain, a large anchor and gallons of fish guts and blood for tying up aquanauts and enticing sharks to eat them. Just his regulation snorkelling gear, and his large semi-robotic underwater camera.

Gordon relaxed slightly. Virgil had been fiddling with upgrades to the camera rig recently, and obviously wanted to test out his current pet project.

So it was a somewhat more relaxed Gordon that steered the little electric motorboat out of the boat-house cavern and around the island, mooring the aptly named ‘Squids Getaway’ to the buoy fifty metres out from the edge of the reef.

One last check over of their gear, a quick reminder of the plan for the dive, and a mandatory status report to John, and they were over the side and into the water.

Gordon immediately headed shorewards to the reef, while Virgil spent a minute fussing over his camera, but he soon overtook Gordon, hitching a ride on the rig as it zizzed along to commence the path Virgil had programmed into it.

Gordon quickly caught up, pride refusing to let a brother beat him in the water, especially when said brother cheated, but quickly lost himself in his inspection of the reef, and the census he had planned on conducting.

It all quickly settled comfortably, Virgil cruised idly among the corals, popping up to the surface to breathe more frequently that Gordon needed to. All that muscle mass his brother sported might be a godsend on a rescue, but it was a liability underwater. But he quickly descended again and resumed his consideration of the reef, carefully not touching anything.

Gordon kept an eye out for Virgil, as he knew Virgil was keeping an eye out for him. The only problem that seemed to be occurring was Virgil’s dratted camera seemed to be following him, bursting into his peripheral vision from behind him with an annoying frequency. As Virgil meandered closer to him, Gordon reached out to tap his shoulder and flourished his divers slate at him. “Keep camera clear. Nearly bumps into me,” scrawled on it.

Virgil peered at the slate, flushed and signed ‘Sorry’, before pulling up his control unit and tapping at buttons. The camera immediately altered course, heading out into deeper water, before circling back around to Virgil’s side.

Gordon signed back ‘Thanks’, and ‘Carry on’, before returning to his census of the reef’s inhabitants. At first, it seemed to be going well, but gradually Gordon noticed that the various reef fishes seemed less shy than normal. Gordon thought it was curious, but decided that the inhabitants of this section of reef had become accustomed to his presence – after all, he had been focusing on this particular sector lately.

But then the fishes seemed to be crowding him, swarming around his head, darting in at him and then back again. In and out, in and out, the waters around his face and head seemed to have become a marine merry-go-round, fish darted in at his head, backed off away, and then joined a cue to come back to what appeared to be designated points to dart back at his head.

Gordon frowned. This was feeding behaviour. But what were they eating?

Gordon twisted in the water, looking for something behind him, but there was nothing there, just the ever increasing school of various fish.

He didn’t see the hāpuku coming.

The meter-long fish lunged into the school, mouth agape, and engulfed a largish fish in the crowd. As the hāpuku continued on its way, it slid past Gordon’s nose, as he turned his head to identify the large block of movement in his peripheral vision. It’s powerful tail slapped the snorkel out of his mouth, sending it spiralling down towards the seafloor.

Gordon grabbed at it, missed, and kicked immediately up for the surface.

Virgil surfaced a couple of dozen feet from him, his camera rig bobbing up beside him. Gordon immediately struck out towards him, quickly covering the distance.

“Did you get that?! Tell me you got that!” Gordon’s excitement was palpable.

“The groper slapping you upside the head? Yeah, I got that.”

Gordon frowned. “New Zealand waters, Virg. It’s hāpuku, not groper. Or wreckfish.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Cultural sensitivity.”

Virgil blinked. “Oh. Right.” He frowned. “Has that happened before?”

“Lost my snorkel? Hundreds of times. You know I buy them by the crate.”

“No, all the fish …” Virgil gestured a circle around his head.

Gordon frowned. “No,” he admitted. “That was weird. That was feeding behaviour, but what were they eating?” He ran a hand through his hair in confusion.

And brought his hand back in front of his face, staring at the greasy yellow goo that liberally coated his fingers. “What?”

He brought his hand to his face and sniffed, then incredulously stuck his tongue out and licked at the substance.

“Is this … spray cheese?” Gordon stared at Virgil in perplexity. His other hand reached back, and encountered more of the same.

Virgil grinned, his camera rose higher in the water, and tilted upwards. A second later a jet of spray cheese shot at Gordon’s face, hitting him square between the eyes.

Gordon’s jaw dropped, and he was in danger of taking on a lungful of seawater.

Virgil smirked. “Yup.”

“You …”

“Yup.”

“The camera …”

“Yup.”

Gordon stared, treading water as gobs of spray cheese dripped off his face.

Virgil edged closer to him, and put extra energy into his treading water, lifting him higher out of the water to loom over Gordon, his eyebrows creased into an ominous frown.

“A little taste of what will happen to you if you ever – repeat ever – mess with my paints again, Gordon. Understand me?”

Gordon gulped. “Yes, Virgil. I understand perfectly.”

“Good.” Virgil smirked. “I think it’s time we went home, don’t you?”

Gordon nodded, his eyes wide as he stared at his immediate older brother. Damn, Virgil could be scary when he wanted to.

Gordon more than agreed he had to get home.

He had some booby traps to defuse.

Before Virgil went back into his studio.

Notes:

I saw a throwaway line somewhere about feeding reef fish with ‘cheez whiz’. A couple of days later I thought, I bet Gordon would stick that on someone’s hair. And then I thought again ...

The standard disclaimers, I do not own Thunderbirds, either the TOS or CGI Series. (Although I do own copies on DVD.)

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

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katblu42 · 3 days

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Anzac Day

youtube

For the Fallen First published in 1914.

Laurence Binyon - 1869-1943

With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children, England mourns for her dead across the sea. Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit, Fallen in the cause of the free.

Solemn the drums thrill: Death august and royal Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres. There is a music in the midst of desolation And a glory that shines upon our tears.

They went with songs to the battle, they were young, Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow. They were staunch to the end against odds uncountered: They fell with their faces to the foe.

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old: Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn. At the going down of the sun and in the morning We will remember them.

They mingle not with their laughing comrades again; They sit no more at familiar tables at home; They have no lot in our labour of the day-time; They sleep beyond England's foam.

But where our desires are and our hopes profound, Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight, To the innermost heart of their own land they are known As the stars are known to the Night;

As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust, Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain; As the stars are starry in the time of our darkness, To the end, to the end they remain.

youtube

#anzac day #lest we forget

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katblu42 · 3 days

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Gah! Looking over my old WIP Overtures...

“Let’s see where that schematic is,” Virgil murmured. “Then I can figure out what colors it should have.” That morning, Jeff had announced that the Mole prototype was going into full pod vehicle service. “I took your recommendations into consideration, and I agree that it has potential beyond the Bangkok rescue.” He had even accepted Gordon’s choice of name. “Mostly because I can’t think of anything better,” he had grumbled.

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katblu42 · 4 days

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Oh, wow. Chaos indeed.

And all those expressions in the artwork - priceless. Not gonna be easy to clean up that mess.

Kamen Rider Thunderbirds Chapter 5: Anything Goes! - Part 1

(Prologue, ...)

Hello guys! :3

This part of the chapter I had the most fun with! Its just... well let's just say chaos... XD

@uniwolfcorn @teapotteringabout @skymaiden32 @knyee @janetm74 @the-original-sineater @thundergeek59 @riallasheng @katblu42 @mariashades @room-on-broom @yarol2075 @river-sam2 @llamawrites @etrnlvoid @cosmic-orchaid

-0-0-0-

“Why does food in America has to be so bloody expensive?” Koji huffed in annoyance.

“Is there a place where you can find food for cheap?” asked Recko, looking semi-curious.

“Mate, we wasted less money on it elsewhere before we came here!” his friend pointed out, his British accent grew sharper at his growing irritation.

Yuuki and Taira giggled their friend before turning back to their cooking.

“Yā~, I can’t wait for Sakiko-chan to join us this afternoon!” Taira grinned excitingly as he was preparing a big chicken.

Yuuki nodded as he cut holes into the fat of the pork steaks, then beating with the back of the knife to tender them.

“I think she promised us she’ll bring the Beaver Tails?” he gave a bashful smile.

“I hope she will!” the optimist nodded, giving the chicken a little smack of pride.

As if expecting it, Taira looked over his shoulder to smile at his friends in the living room.

Recko was grimacing in disgust, “Ew… Why are you eating this?”

“Uuh, isn’t it illegal to bring meat across the borders?” asked a rather perplexed Koji.

“It’s the Canadian sweets, we were talking about! And no, we don’t want to bring anything deadly across the boarders!” the optimist grinned, prompting a fit of laughter in the room.

Taira let the chicken roast in the oven, and Yuuki deep fried the pork pieces after covering them with batter and breadcrumbs.

The smell flowed across the apartment, entering the nostrils of the poor Raider, who was laying down on the bed with begging eyes, even whimpering of pity.

Noticing, Recko went to his canine companion to reassure him that he’ll get a nice and delicious meal soon.

Suddenly, a growling noise echoed the apartment, taking everyone’s attention to Koji, who was carrying the rest of groceries to the kitchen.

“Oh dear! Hunger struck me,” he held his gut with a modest look.

“You should eat something. Some snack?” Taira suggested as he took the groceries.

“Oh! I know!” Koji smiled as he dove his hand into bag. He then pulled out a well sealed metal can. “Ah, my favorite! Canned beef steaks!”

“Not surprised…” Recko smirked in amusement, becoming aware of Raider wagging his tail at the sight of the can.

“I used to eat this Shiitake a lot, man!” his friend grinned, “This stuff is one of the things that are tasty, growing up in England.”

“I thought they were… Meh…” Yuuki raised his hand and lightly shook it side to side.

Koji chuckled as he clasps his hands and rubbed them eagerly in preparation.

“Ah, say what you will about canned beef steaks; a man’s disgusts are another man’s delicacy!” the ex-cop licked his lips.

He began searching for something to open it.

He found a can opener, a small kitchen knife and a fork. But for the last five minutes, and to his horror, he finds that the can opener was broken, the small kitchen knife snapped in two, and the fork bended!

“Let me open it,” Recko volunteered as he took the can from Koji, who ran off to the other room to grab one of his useful tools.

After trying his best to tear the lid open with his bare fingers, the biker kid stared at it with a cold stare.

“Who the heck makes it like this?” Recko uttered in a cold tone.

“H’Oh, for Kouta’s sake, man! Let’s h’open h’already!” outraged Koji with his sharpest Cockney accent as he came back, grabbing the can and attempted it to open the stubborn lid with his battle knife.

Suddenly, the tin container violently slipped out of his hands, ricochet a wall before it hit on the shoulder of a semi-suspecting Yuuki.

Horrified, Koji immediately ran up to his poor downed friend, “Ah! Gomenasai*!”

“Daijobou~…*” croaked Yuuki, rubbing the blossoming bruise where he got hit.

Taira picked up the offending can and chuckled, “Looks like we got a stubborn one!”

“Any ideas left?” Koji asked with a desperate expression.

“I have a plan! Maybe… I could use my powers to open it?” Yuuki lifted a finger like he just had a lightbulb lit up in his head.

“I’m not sure if it’s a good idea, buddy,” Taira pulled face of uncertainty.

“It is not,” deadpanned Recko.

“We have to at least try!” the young cook replied, taking the offending item from his friend and placed it on the tiled floor.

With a deep breath, Yuuki’s eyes glowed bright golden as he stared directly at the lonesome can of beef steaks. His hair rose and waved in the air, as if gravity gradually lost its effect as the universe around him ceased to exist momentarily.

At first, the tin container slightly shook, growing more violently. Then, it bulged and twisted at the sheer force of his power, seemingly ready to be torn apart.

Realizing what was about to happen, Taira suddenly yelled, “Abunai*!”

An explosion rumbled in the kitchen, followed by a ringing silence.

“Was that your plan – lick it off the walls?” Recko deadpanned, wiping the pieces of meat off his face. He then looked down at his dog, who was licking the food off the floor happily.

“Oh…” Koji whimpered as he looked around the room, seemingly about to cry.

He thoughtfully took a piece of meat of Taira’s surprised face and put it into his mouth. He swallowed it and let out a sigh of disappointment.

“Uuuhh… I have cabbage cake if you want,” Yuuki grinned sheepishly.

The ex-cop turned and smiled faintly.

“Thanks, I don’t feel hungry anymore… And we should probably clean up before Sakiko comes in.” He added, following the sight of a poker-faced Recko, who was looking with grim silence at the ceiling.

-0-0-0-

*Japanese translation:

Gomenasai = I'm so sorry

Daijobou = Its okay

Abunai! = Look out!

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