Contemplations in Rose

John carefully studied the file that Lou had sent and his father had forwarded to him. Tony Cho had written his email in Hanyu Pinyin, the alphabet that made his Mandarin easier to read for Westerners. But to translate it properly, John had to read it out loud. As he did, he wrote the words down on a data pad as they were, not trying to put it into idiomatic English at this point. Suddenly, he came up on something that made him frown. What are those characters doing there? And why did this guy set them apart? Weird. There must have been something that he wanted to keep obscured. I'll come back and puzzle it out when I'm finished with the main translation.

He had just about finished translating the whole missive when there was a knock on his door. "Come in," he said distractedly. The door swished open, but John didn't look up to see who it was. He was so close to the end and so engrossed in what he was doing that he jumped and let out a little "Agh!" when someone tapped him heavily on the shoulder. He turned to see the bemused face of his oldest brother looking back at him. "Scott!"

"Hey, John. Sorry I startled you," Scott said, taking one of the comfortable chairs in his brother's room. "What's so fascinating?"

John swiveled his desk chair around to face his brother. He waved an arm at the computer screen. "I'm translating an email that Aunt Lou sent. It's in Mandarin, and there's a couple of odd characters that Lou's program wouldn't translate. Dad thought I could help."

"Hmph," Scott grunted.

"So, what brings you here, bro?" John asked. He got up, twirled his chair around, and sat in it backwards, his arms draped loosely over the back. "You've got my undivided attention."

Scott put one ankle up on the opposite knee. "I'm here to find out what you meant when you said Virgil 'dropped' the pod when he said he 'lowered' it."

John looked sheepish, and rubbed the back of his head. "Oh, that. It was nothing, Scott. We were getting on each other's nerves and..."

Scott cut in. "It's not nothing, John. I know you're very precise when it comes to what you say and if the two of you disagree on how something was handled, I want to know why. Now, why were you getting on each other's nerves?"

The blond looked away and then down before meeting his brother's eyes. "Well, I had gotten things ready in the sickbay and he called down to see how it was going. Then he told me to come up and pilot Two for him."

This got Scott to sit up straight and put his raised foot back on the floor. "He what?"

"He told me to pilot Two for him."

"That's weird. Did he give you a reason?"

"Well, at first he said that he wanted to be the one to meet FAB-1 in the pod," John explained. "When I... uh... reminded him that I wasn't as good a pilot on Two as he was and pressed him for more details, he clammed up about it then got sarcastic. By that point we were both good and irritated with each other. He gave me three minutes to get back to the pod before he dropped it."

"Only three minutes?" Scott unconsciously reached up to rub his stubbled chin with the back of a finger.

"Yeah. I ran back and had just enough time to strap myself into the Firefly when the pod dropped. And I do mean, dropped." John put one hand out horizontally and smacked it with the other for emphasis. "Just like he used to do to pod four before Gordon started complaining. It must have been a half dozen meters or more. Felt like I left my stomach behind somewhere."

Scott's eyes narrowed as he gazed at John's rueful face. "He didn't give you any more explanation as to why he wanted to be the one to greet FAB-1?"

The younger man shook his head. "Nope. And he was really snarky and impatient when we were waiting for you to come back. Fortunately, he bottled it up when Brigitte came onto the flight deck."

"Brigitte?"

John grinned at his brother. "Yeah, Brigitte. You know, that tall, beautiful blonde. She's a firefighter during the day. Said she helped that doctor with Peter..." His words trailed off when he saw Scott suddenly glance away. He got up from his chair and went to his brother, crouching so that he was roughly eye level with the seated Scott. "Hey, Scotty. I am sorry about Pete. He was a great guy, one of a kind. I'm going to miss him, too."

The older man didn't say anything for a moment, but finally turned his eyes to his brother and said softly, "Thanks, Johnny." He paused again, then continued. "It all doesn't seem real, y'know. Kinda like when Mom and Gramps died. It took a while to get used to the fact that they were gone, that the phone calls I'd get from home weren't from Mom, and that I wouldn't see Gramps coming through the door to visit like he used to." He took a deep breath and let it out. "And it's not like Pete and I had seen much of each other lately. But still... I always knew he was there to talk to, to visit when I went to the offices in Unity City. Now he's not there anymore." He took his eyes away and looked out the window. "I guess I feel worst about Melissa and the kids. They've lost so much...," Scott suddenly propelled himself out of the chair, nearly knocking John over in the process. "Dammit, John! This was not supposed to happen!" He turned to place a forearm on the floor to ceiling windows that looked out over the lush greenery surrounding the villa and the rocky headland that sloped down to the sea. He laid his forehead on the arm and stared out, seeing nothing. "This was not supposed to happen."

John stood and watched his brother for a moment, then joined him at the window. He put a hand on Scott's back as he said, "I know it wasn't. Just like that avalanche wasn't supposed to happen either. But it did. And there's no going back."

"The avalanche was an act of nature, Johnny. This whole thing... Pete's death... could have been avoided if someone had been on the ball and had done their job right. Or... if I had been allowed to take a hand."

John was astonished at the bitterness in Scott's tone. "I don't understand, Scott. I mean, no one knew that the Minister of Security was really the Hood, did they? Or that he'd recognize Penny, even in disguise. And what do you mean by your last comment?"

"Never mind, John. What's done is done. Like you said, there's no going back," Scott replied. He turned to his brother with a solemn face. "Now I have to have a little talk with Virgil about this pod incident."

"No, Scott. Don't," John said. "I mean, we were p.o.'d at each other and I'm sure he didn't mean..."

Scott cut him off. "Regardless of whether or not he meant it, you could have been injured. And besides, I'm sure I know why he wanted to be the one to greet FAB-1. I can't let him get away with putting his personal feelings ahead of his duties when we're out on a rescue."

"His personal feelings? You know why he wanted me to pilot?" John asked, puzzled.

"Yeah." Scott turned away from the windows and moved toward the door.

John followed, his face a study in confusion. "Well? Aren't you going to tell me?"

Scott paused, considering his answer. Would Virgil want John to know? He didn't tell him when they were alone on Two, so I suppose he wouldn't. Still, John has a right to an answer. He turned to face John squarely. "It seems our brother has a 'thing' for Lady Penelope."

The blond blinked a couple of times, then smiled tentatively. "You're kidding, right?"

A solemn shake of Scott's head was his answer. "No, I'm not. He's admitted it to me and I think he's admitted it to Father."

John let out a low whistle. "Boy, I wish I had been a fly on the wall for that conversation!"

"Yeah, well, Dad says that Penelope isn't his girlfriend, so maybe there's still hope for Virgil," Scott said with a derisive snort. "In any case, I need to talk with him about this." The door swished open at the touch of a button. "I'll see you later, John. And... thanks for listening."

"You're welcome," John said as his brother stepped through the door. He added, "Anytime," as the portal swished shut. Turning back to his computer, he tried to process the information that he had just received. Virgil wants Lady P? I sure didn't see that coming.

The late afternoon sunlight glinted on the moisture that covered the open bloom, and Virgil hurried to capture the image before either the sun moved too far or he had to spritz the rose with transpirant again. The crimson petals were perfectly parted and the leaves were a deep green, with no damage to their serrated edges. He didn't know why he had been inspired to come to Kyrano's garden that day or why the rose had caught his eye, but it had, and his artistic muse was satisfied with the subject. He didn't know what kind of rose it was, but the color reminded him of Lady Penelope's lipstick... which took his mind to her lips, and her face.

Irritated with himself for straying from his subject, he brought his mind back to the rose... and was surprised when the other subject of his thoughts came softly down the ground pumice path.

"Oh!" she said, surprised to find him in the garden. "I had no idea you were here, Virgil. I shall find another spot. I do not wish to disturb you."

"No, Lady Penelope!" he replied, perhaps a touch too eagerly. He moderated his tone and gave her a winning smile. "Please stay. You're not disturbing me, really."

"If you are certain..."

"I am. Please stay."

She nodded, and went to sit nearby on a redwood bench under a shady trellis that was entwined with fragrant, pink blossoms. He made himself turn back to the rose, only to find that the transpirant had evaporated. With an exasperated huff, he pulled out his sprayer and misted the bloom again.

He worked quietly, feeling her presence behind him and wondering if he could screw his courage up enough to tell her how he felt. The warmth of the day grew, and with it, Virgil's discomfort, both internal and external. He pulled at the collar of the t-shirt he wore under the oversized button down shirt that he used as a painting smock. The more authentic and stereotypical painter's smock and toque that his grandmother had given him had gotten conveniently 'lost' in the depths of his closet at the New York penthouse after only one or two wearings. He had taken it there to keep from having to wear it for any occasion less than a costume party. The old shirt he now wore, one of Scott's cast offs, had taken its place as a painting cover-up.

The quiet grew heavy, like the atmosphere before a thunderstorm, until Penelope herself broke the silence. "This is such a peaceful place."

"Yes, it is," Virgil murmured in response. I almost have it... just a few moments more and this will be finished.

"I had hoped that coming here would help me sort out my thoughts."

One more stroke... no, no, not quite there yet... "Has it helped?"

"No, I am afraid it has not."

Virgil put one last stroke of green paint on a leaf and knew the painting was finished. The feeling of completeness that he knew so well fell over him and his shoulders, once tense in the emotional frenzy of finishing his work, drooped and relaxed. He turned to Penelope with a smile, and began to clean up his materials.

"Is it finished?" she asked, rising to move closer and view his painting.

"Yes, it is," he replied with conviction. "Now to let it dry." He put his brushes into a small jar of water, and wiped his paint-tinted hands on a damp rag.

"It is lovely. A hybrid tea rose, I think, though I could not tell you which one. I am not as well versed in roses as others in my social circle are. Do you know what it is?"

Virgil shook his head. "No. I was going to ask Kyrano when I was finished."

She glanced at the rose, and then at the painting. "You have certainly captured the heart of the blossom. Do you often paint with watercolors?"

"No more than any other form of painting," he replied, unbuttoning the paint-covered shirt. "Whew! It's getting warm out here. I want to wait until the painting is dry before I head back up to the house." He opened a small cooler at his feet and pulled out a bottle of spring water, offering it to her. She hesitated for a moment, then took it with a murmured, "Thank you." Pulling a second, already opened bottle from the cooler, he guided her over to the bench again and sat down. She joined him on the bench, smoothing her dark slacks as she did, then opening the plastic bottle and taking a tentative sip.

"You were saying that you were having trouble sorting out your thoughts," he began, gazing at her as he spoke.

Penelope would not meet his eyes, but took another sip of water. She sighed, and said, "Yes, I am. Very much so." There was another silence, then she turned to him. "You know, I have done many different things as an agent, not only for International Rescue, but also before your father recruited me. I have broken into houses, stolen, planted surveillance devices, done so much that most people would consider illegal, immoral or both. I have done them with Parker and without him. I have even killed. The Erdman gang, the saboteurs that were after the Zero-X, too many lives I have snuffed either in the name of God and Country or in the cause of International Rescue. But it always has seemed so... remote, so abstract, almost as if I were not the one pulling the trigger. It had always seemed a thrilling, dangerous... game to me." She turned her head away and gazed off into the distance. "And I have never, ever lost someone who was working with me. Never."

Virgil watched as her free hand clenched into a fist as it lay on her thigh. He took a deep breath and said softly, "Until now."

She glanced back at him, assaying a smile and failing, then nodding slowly. "Quite right. Until now." Her face turned down and Virgil could see that she was trying hard to control her emotions. "This... Peter... his death has made me reconsider many things in my life. It has affected me in a way that I would never have expected. For once, I see my occupation as the dirty, dangerous, and deadly serious business that it is. Peter's death has made me question whether or not I should be doing what I am doing. Whether or not even International Rescue is worth the loss of an innocent life."

Virgil took in a sharp breath. "Have you come to a conclusion?" he asked, his eyes on her face, trying to look and seem neutral and sympathetic when, inside, his heart and breath were stopped, waiting for her answer.

"No, not yet." She tried to smile again, and this time managed a small, wan one. "You see, I keep running into something Peter said; in fact, they were his very last words. I have turned them over and over in my mind for hours now and I cannot get past them. I have not told your father about them, even though they were meant for him." She looked down again and sniffled once. "I find I cannot agree with them, but still, if Peter thought this way, how can I discount it?"

"What did he say?"

She raised her head and looked off into space again, her blue eyes unfocused. "He told me to 'tell the boss, t'was worth it'." She shifted her gaze to him again, eyes moist and face solemn. "He knew he was dying, Virgil. He knew, and he wanted your father to know that he felt he did not die in vain." Taking another sip of water, she said, "He wanted your father to know that he considered International Rescue to be worth the sacrifice of his own life." She sighed heavily and remarked, "I do not know if I can agree with him. I do not think I can continue as an agent if it means losing another innocent life or if it means leaving another family without a loved one."

Virgil was stuck. He could not think of anything to say that would sway Penelope into staying. One thing is clear; this is not the time to tell her how I feel! He wracked his brains for something, anything to make her sense of loss easier to bear. Finally, he thought he had it. He slid an arm across the back of the bench and turned his body fully toward her. "You know," he began, "when we first started operations, I had nightmares. Nightmares about the rescues we performed and how things might have gone wrong. Nightmares about what I would say to the families of the people whose lives I could not save. I mean, even though Scott is the one who runs interference with the authorities and is the 'face' of IR, and John or Alan could be considered its 'voice', I'm the one who does most of the work. I'm the one who catches the heat if I can't pull off that miracle."

"Then came one day when we didn't save them all. When weather, and time, and circumstances beyond our control cost some lives, lives we had counted on rescuing. We all came home dejected and full of remorse. Even John in Thunderbird Five felt the pain of our failure. That was when my father said something very wise that we've had to remind ourselves of after every rescue."

"What was that?"

"That we were not going to be able to save them all. That we had to focus on those we did save and not those we couldn't. He said that we were just like firefighters, and police, and medical workers the world over, every day. And just as they carried on despite their failures, so should we." He gave a little shrug. "It's a pretty obvious statement, but... sometimes it helps put things in perspective."

"Only sometimes?" she queried, a slight challenge to her voice.

"Yes, only sometimes." He finished his water, then continued, "There are times when you know you've screwed up, when you know that a life has been lost because of your own stupidity or lack of skill. That's when it hurts the most. Those are the times I've relied on my family to help me through."

She sat quietly for a moment, digesting what he had said. Then, "I think I understand what you are trying to tell me; that Peter's death was something that I could not foresee or prevent. But that's not quite true, Virgil. It was my actions that started this whole nasty business, my hubris in thinking I should go undetected that set in motion those events that led up to his death." She looked down again. "I think that I no longer have the skills required to continue in this... occupation."

There was a long silence, then Virgil smiled at her reassuringly. "I'm sure that's not true, Lady Penelope. Maybe you need to rethink how you do things, but I don't think you're unqualified. And I doubt Dad does either."

Her cheeks colored, and she glanced down. "Thank you, Virgil, for your kind words. I still have much to think about before I make a decision one way or another."

Daring greatly, he reached out and took her free hand. "I hope you make a decision to stay with International Rescue, Penelope. Things wouldn't be the same without you."

Smiling slightly, she glanced over at him. "You have been such a good friend, listening to me natter on like this. I am certain that even if I decide to end my involvement in International Rescue, I should still remain close to your family."

Good friend? Is that all? Maybe... maybe it is time I told her how I feel. Virgil squeezed her hand slightly, cleared his suddenly constricted throat, and opened his mouth to speak when the sound of footsteps on the gravel path caught the attention of both people. They looked up in unison to see Scott coming down the path and into view. He stopped stock still as he took in the scene before him: Virgil and Penelope, sitting together under a trellis of roses, Penelope's hand in his brother's.

Oh, God. What have I walked in on? he thought with chagrin. "Sorry to disturb you," he said gruffly. "I need to talk to Virgil, but I can catch him later."

"No, Scott," Penelope said, gently pulling her hand from Virgil's and rising from the bench. "Virgil and I are finished talking. And I should return to the house and see if there are any messages for me from my friend in Unity City." She turned to the painter and said, "Thank you again for listening to me. You have been a great help."

"You're welcome, Penelope," Virgil answered, inwardly cursing his brother's timing. "If you need to talk again, I'll be happy to listen."

"I shall remember that." She started up the path that led out of the garden, stopping at Scott, who stiffly stood aside to let her pass. "I shall let you know when my friend calls, Scott."

"Sure," he said, his voice cool. She looked into his eyes briefly, shook her head slightly, and continued on her way.

In the meantime, Virgil was pulling his brushes from the water and removing his work from the easel. Scott barely gave it a glance as he came down to confront his brother.

"So, what did you need to talk to me about?" Virgil asked, trying to conceal his frustration at Scott's interruption.

"Why did you ask John to pilot Two?" the darker-haired man asked bluntly, his arms crossed over his chest.

Virgil glanced over at his brother, noting the belligerent pose, then turned back to his clean up. "I wanted to be the one to meet FAB-1 when it came into the pod."

"Why?"

The artist continued with what he was doing. "Why do you think? I wanted to make sure she was okay."

"What happened when John refused?"

Virgil sighed. "I gave him three minutes to get back to the pod and then I... I dropped it." He looked at Scott again. "And I'm sorry about that. I was p.o.'d at him and what I did was stupid. Okay?"

Scott's face colored and he put his arms down. Striding over to his brother, he stood close, hands on hips. "No, it's not okay! Dammit, Virgil, you could have hurt him!"

The younger man put up his hands defensively. "I know, I know! And I'm sorry! I'll apologize to him. Just... drop it."

"No. Not until I'm sure that you're not going to let your feelings for that... incompetent blueblooded bitch get in the way of your work!"

No one could miss the thunderous look on Virgil's face, nor could Scott miss the right hook that came flying toward his face. He instinctively blocked the punch, then let fly with one of his own that sent Virgil staggering back, slamming into his easel and sending his painting and supplies flying. The glass jar shattered, and as Virgil reached out to stop his inevitable fall, his hand fell on the shards.

"Damn you, Scott!" he hissed through gritted teeth, glaring at Scott as he cradled his bloody left hand in his right. "What the hell is your problem?"

"What the hell is my problem?" Scott asked as he offered Virgil a hand up. "What's yours? You threw the first punch!"

Virgil ignored Scott's hand, and instead, gingerly pulled the larger shards from his palm. Then he grabbed the paint covered shirt and wrapped that around his hand. He levered himself to his feet by rolling away from the broken jar, getting on his knees and pushing up with his good hand. Once he was facing his brother, who stood stolidly, arms crossed again, he put his good hand up and rubbed along his jaw, moving it to see if it was still functioning properly. He glared at Scott, poked his brother's chest with a finger and growled, "Don't ever talk about her that way." Then he stalked off.

Scott watched him go, shaking his head. He walked down to where Virgil had left his supplies, and picked up the painting. It was spattered with his brother's blood. Scott looked down at his own bandaged hand and sighed. He righted the easel, and began to retrieve the scattered paints and brushes.

Dark-haired, fair-skinned Patricia Carter, Interpol investigator, walked along the beach on Señor Alvarez's private cay. She joined up with her local counterpart, Ciprien Badeau, of the Unity City police department as he directed the forensics people who were taking samples of the sand. The floodlights that covered the beach and those that were set up at the helijet pad, illuminated the crime scenes so that the officers could work, even at this early morning hour.

"What do you think a' this, C?" Patricia asked, sweeping her arm to indicate the strip of sand. "The foliage cut down wi' laser or gunfire from the water. The tire tracks in the sand. One helijet blown up and the second helijet missin'. One of Señor Alvarez's men shot through the head on the beach, but two pools of blood found, one a' them hidden. Somethun' doesn't add up to my mind, so it doesn't."

"Trish, I wish I had an answer. It doesn't feel like a terrorist attack, dough, even wit de helijet's destruction," Ciprian said shaking his dark head, the small wooden beads on his braids clacking. He rose from the sand, dusting off his hands. "And I tink dat Señor Alvarez is impatient for us to be done and gone." He indicated the form of Ramirez, who was striding down toward them from the house.

"Detective Carter! When will your people be through here?" he asked candidly as he approached the pair. "His Excellency is eager to get some sleep."

"We'll be done witin de hour," Ciprian replied with just a hint of irritation. "It is not easy to cover such a large crime scene."

"How does this help find that poor Señorita St. Clair?" Ramirez asked, spreading his hands in a gesture of puzzlement. "And what does Interpol think of this... crime scene?"

"Señor Ramirez, I am wi' the Public Safety and Terrorism division a' Interpol," Patricia reminded him. "We are considerin' this to be a terrorist attack, so we are. And we are doin' everythin' we can to locate Ms. St. Clair."

"Then I will leave it in your capable hands," Ramirez said, flashing his white smile. "Buenos noches, señor, señora."

They echoed his words, watched Ramirez go back up the sandy path to the hacienda, then exchanged glances. "Why is it dat I don't tink I can trust dat man as far as I can trow him?" Ciprian asked.

"Because you can't," Patricia replied. Her satellite phone rang. "Carter here. Yes. Really? That's very interestin', so it is. I'll... keep it in mind. Yes. Thank you."

"Who was dat?" Ciprian asked as she folded up her phone and stowed it in a pocket of her light blazer.

"A mate a' mine, based in London," the dark haired woman said.

"I know dat tone of voice. Someting interesting has happened. What is it?"

"The office a' Britain's Prime Minister, Edward Trelawney, stated that Alison St. Clair, whoever she is, is not and never has been an aide or employee at Number 10 Downing Street, so she's not. As far as they are concerned, she doesn't exist!"