Regrets in Neon Orange

"Tracy One requesting landing clearance, over."

"Clearance granted, Tracy One. Welcome back." Scott turned off the radio and sat back in his father's chair. "Virgil didn't sound too happy, did he?"

"No, not at all," Gordon commented from across the room where he was playing chess with Brains. "Could it be because Penelope's gone to Bongo-Bongo and Dad made him take her there?"

"P-Perhaps, Gordon, if that's what h-happened. Though I, uh, don't see why that would m- make him unhappy," Brains said, his eyes on the board. "Check."

Gordon frowned at the board. "When'd you do that?" he asked his opponent, glancing up at him.

"J-Just now," Brains replied with a slight smirk.

The aquanaut gave the engineer a dirty look, and turned his attention back to the game.

"Has anyone seen Dad?" Alan asked as he came in through the study, his blond hair still damp from a swim. Kenny Malone followed, his hair also shiny and wet. He looked around the lounge with great interest and made a beeline for the portraits of the Tracy sons, all in uniform, that lined one wall.

"No, not recently. Not since before lunch, when he sent us all out of the room," Gordon explained helpfully. He moved his king out of danger, then sat back with his arms folded as if daring the engineer to put him back in check.

"Hmm. I could ask John where Dad is," Scott suggested. "It would be the easiest way to find him."

"True," said Alan. Something caught his eye by the door to the balcony, and he altered course to fetch it. "Hey, here's one of Dad's whiskey glasses." He gave it a sniff. "It's been used."

Scott levered himself out of his father's chair and took the glass from Alan. He smelled it, too, and nodded his head. "Dad must have had a snort. Wonder why he left it by the door?"

"Maybe he went outside afterwards and didn't want to take the glass with him," Kenny suggested hesitantly, turning from where he was examining John's portrait.

Scott nodded again in the mechanic's direction. "You're probably right, Kenny. Wonder where he went."

"Hey, Scott, d'you think Dad would mind if I showed Kenny how I get to Thunderbird Three?" Alan asked. "I don't think we've given him a proper tour yet."

The eldest son shrugged. "I don't suppose it would hurt. Go ahead."

"Come over here, Kenny, and sit on this couch," Alan said, a mischievous gleam in his eye.

"Okay, sure," Kenny replied agreeably as he joined Alan. "Now what?"

"Oh, just this," Scott said with a wicked grin as he pushed the button that sent the sofa into the floor.

Kenny's eyes went wide and his shouted, "Whoa!" could be heard echoing up through the shaft, followed shortly by, "Hey, that's a couch just like this one!" Scott and Gordon both chuckled, while Brains merely said, "Check."

The empty couch slipped smoothly into place just as the intercom buzzed, and Grandma's voice could be heard. "Jeff? Are you up in the lounge?"

"No, Grandma, Dad's not here," Scott explained. "What can I help you with?"

"I need Gordon to come down here to Tin-Tin's suite and try on the new uniform. We've been working on it ever since lunch and it's nearly complete. Just needs a few more adjustments."

"Sure, I'll send him down right away."

"Thank you, Scott. Oh, and supper will be ready in about forty-five minutes. Make sure everyone knows."

"Okay, Grandma. Scott out." He glanced over at Gordon, who was studying the chess board. "You heard the lady, Gordon."

"Ugh. More pins," the copper-haired one grunted. He moved his king out of danger again, and said to his opponent, "Duty calls."

"D-Doesn't matter," Brains said with a smug smile. "Mate in two."

Gordon growled in his throat, and got up to leave the room. As he left, Virgil came storming in, passing his younger brother, coming straight up to Scott and demanding, "Give me a shot of Dad's stash!"

"What for?" Scott asked, scowling.

"Because I need it," Virgil shot back. He began to circle around the desk, heading for the cupboard.

Scott stood up and stepped in his way. "What's the matter? What's got you so hot and bothered?"

Virgil glanced over at Brains who was watching the exchange with interest. Scott came to his rescue. "Brains? Do you mind?" he asked.

Brains shrugged. There were times that he felt a part of the family and other times when the brothers closed ranks, not necessarily against him in particular, but to shield each other. This seemed to be one of those times. "Wh-Why don't I go look for your, uh, father?"

"Good idea," Scott said, giving the engineer a smile.

Virgil raised a hand and gave a grateful, "Thanks, Brains."

The engineer left the room via the door to the balcony. "Now, if I were, uh, Mr. T-Tracy, which way would I go?" he asked himself. "He's not by the pool; Alan and K-Kenny would have, uh, seen him. I'll check the, uh, garden first."

Back in the lounge, Scott pulled out the bottle of Bushmill's. "Hey! Looks like Dad got out a new bottle." He looked up at Virgil, who was standing over the desk. "You've calmed down some. You sure you still want this?"

"Yes, I still want it," Virgil said.

"Well, you're only having one shot and you're not drinking alone," Scott said. He pulled out two glasses. "It's evident that Dad's had a snort of this already," he commented, motioning to the dirty glass. He poured two fingers' worth for each of them and handed Virgil one, then leaned back in Jeff's chair, sniffing the whiskey before he sipped it. "Whoa! That's got a punch!"

Virgil settled himself on the edge of the desk as he had before, crossing one arm across his chest and staring over at the pictures of the five of them. He didn't dare look in the direction of his other painting, the one of Penelope. He sipped the Scotch but didn't really taste it.

"Earth to Virgil, come in, Virgil," Scott said as he watched his brother. When the younger man started and turned his eyes toward him, he asked, "What's on your mind?" He reached up to touch his brother's jaw with a finger. "Hey, I thought that bruise was healing up!"

Virgil felt along his jaw. "It was. This is a new one. I should have gotten some ice for it. It was a little present from Parker."

"From Parker? What the hell did you do to rile him?"

The chestnut-haired man sipped his drink again. "It's... it's hard to talk about." He sighed. "You know when Dad called me up to the lounge after lunch?"

Scott nodded, and Virgil continued, "Well, he wanted me to take Penelope to Bongo-Bongo, as you probably know. What you don't know is why he chose me and not you or one of the others."

"Okay, I'll bite. Why did Dad send you?"

"To give me an opportunity to talk to Penny and tell her how I feel," Virgil said bitterly. "Seems she and Dad... well, she learned how Dad really feels about her."

"Not a girlfriend," Scott said, sipping his Scotch.

Virgil frowned. "How did you know?"

Now Scott got fidgety, and put his glass on the desk, absently twirling it around slowly from the top. "When we got back from the Caribbean, I gave him a piece of my mind. Accused him of putting Peter's life on the line to save...," Scott made little waving hooks of the first two fingers on each hand to indicate quotation marks, " 'his girlfriend'." He went back to turning the glass in circles, his eyes focused on it, but unseeing. "He told me flat out then and there that Penelope wasn't his girlfriend. Never had been and never would be."

"Oh," was all Virgil could say.

They were silent for a moment, then Scott picked up the glass, and took another sip. He let the smooth liquor roll down his tongue and beyond before asking, "So? What did you do?"

Virgil shook his head ruefully. "I asked her to come up to the cockpit. We talked. I indicated that Dad had told me what had happened between them, and why I had been selected to take her to Bongo-Bongo." He took a last gulp of Scotch and put the glass down on the desk. "Then I told her I loved her." He snorted a humorless laugh. "What an idiotic move that was!"

"Why?" Scott asked, finishing his drink.

"She... it... it was just the wrong time, that's all. Here she'd been bombarded with all this crap from Unity City, on top of all the grief over Peter, not to mention Dad's little revelation..." He shook his head. "It was just too much for her, Scott. She shot out of the cockpit like the devil was chasing her. And Parker said she just sat in her seat, hugging herself, not responding to him, for the rest of the flight." Virgil fingered his jaw again. "That's what earned me this beaut. I kicked myself all the rest of the way there and all the way back."

"Hmm. Sounds like you blew it, Virge," Scott remarked. "Just like I did. I meant to apologize for the way I treated her but never made the time."

"You had a change of heart toward her?" his brother asked, surprised.

"Yeah. Parker and I had a little chat on the way to Derry. He told me Pete's last words. It changed a few things for me, opened my eyes to how some of the agents must really feel about working for IR. I was all for disbanding the network and protecting those who didn't have the skills to do the things we asked of Pete, that we ask of Penny on a regular basis. But for some of them, it's a special thing to work for IR. They might not be able to pilot a jet or drive the Mole or do any of the things that we do, yet they feel a part of it, and it's important to them. And more important to us than I realized. I mean, we wouldn't have had any idea about what information those detectives had found if it wasn't for Renée."

"Renée?"

"Agent 38. Her first name is Renée," Scott explained, smiling. "I got to know her a little bit at Unity City. She's quite a lady."

"Yeah, so is Agent 87. John's new 'friend'," Virgil said, when Scott shot him a puzzled look. "She had some interesting things to say while we were waiting for you to come back."

"Oh, you mean the Valkyrie?" the older man asked.

"Yeah, that's the one."

"Whew! John certainly picks the hot ones, doesn't he?" Scott joked.

"He does. Wonder how she looks in her firefighter's gear?" Virgil speculated.

Just then the intercom buzzed. Virgil and Scott both reached for the button. "S-Scott? Brains here. I've, uh, found your father. He's in the, uh, Round House."

"What's he doing there, Brains?" Scott asked, exchanging a concerned glance with Virgil.

"Uh, evidently, he's, uh, sleeping one o-off."

"Do we leave him?" Scott asked Virgil.

The younger man shrugged. "He might want to eat dinner. He barely touched his lunch."

"Brains, see what you can do to wake him up. I'll join you in a few minutes," Scott replied.

"O-Okay, Scott."

Scott rose from his father's seat. "Better put this away," he said, stashing the Bushmill's in its cupboard. He tapped Virgil's arm. "Come on and lend a hand. I need to apologize to Dad, too, and he's got to be conscious and sober for me to do it."

"Milady? Tea is served, milady," Parker said in a gentle tone he rarely used.

Penelope stood by the tall windows that looked out onto the patio. "Set it on the table, Parker. I shall attend to it presently."

"Very good, milady." There was a slight rattle of crockery and silver as Parker set the tea service down where his employer had indicated. He stood for a moment, shifting from one foot to another. "Beggin' yer pardon, milady, but Ay 'ave summat t' tell ye."

She sighed heavily. "What is it, Parker?"

"Erm... h'afore Mr. Virgil left, Ay 'ad h'a word wit' 'im. H'About what 'e said t' ye. Ay'm h'afraid Ay was h'a tad 'asty-layke..."

"What did you say to him, Parker?" she asked in a long-suffering tone.

"Ay'm h'afraid Ay spoke wiv may fists furst, milady," the chauffeur said regretfully.

"Oh, Parker!" Penelope now turned from the window to give her partner a reproachful look. "Did you at least ask him what it was he said to me?"

"No, milady, Ay did not. But 'e told me chust th' same." Parker had the good grace to look downcast and appropriately contrite. "Ay h'apologize fer may mistake, milady. Ay shall, o'course, h'apologize t' Mr. Virgil 'imself when Ay see 'im h'again."

"Poor Virgil," Penelope shook her head. "I do hope you haven't damaged him too badly, Parker. I suppose I shall have to apologize as well. My own behavior was far from ladylike. But after learning how... Jeff sees me, to hear his son profess love... it was too much for me to handle."

" 'E did say, milady, that 'e re-h'a-layzed h'it wuz poor timin'," Parker offered.

"Yes, it was, Parker. Very poor timing." Penelope moved over to the comfortable chintz covered chair that she preferred and poured herself a cup of tea. She glanced up at Parker. "That will be all, Parker."

"Very good, milady."

The butler turned to go, but stopped as Penelope called, "Oh, Parker?"

"Yus, milady?"

"Thank you for... defending my honor, as it were. It is heartening to know that chivalry is not dead."

"H'It never were, milady. An' yer welcome."

Parker turned again and left the room, closing the doors quietly behind him. Penelope sat back in her chair, sipping her tea, enjoying the quiet of the ranch, and reviewing in her mind all the information that had been gathered about Alison St. Clair. She pushed Jeff's rejection and Virgil's profession off to one side for later consideration.

Dinner was over. Jeff still looked like he'd had too much to drink, but coffee, aspirin, and a light meal helped him through the worst of it. He now sat behind his desk with another cup of strong coffee as the rest of the extended family gathered in the lounge to await the unveiling of Tin-Tin's new uniform design. Voices could be heard coming from the study. "Stand still, Gordon!" "Ow! You stuck me again, Grandma!" "Here, let me clean that visor off!" Jeff hoped that the voices couldn't carry to the communications system; John was online with them, his portrait activated.

Eleanor scurried out of the study, a grin on her face. She slipped into a space between Virgil and Brains on the couch and sat up regally. Tin-Tin came out, smiled hesitantly, and said, "Okay everyone, here is my proposed new design for the International Rescue operative uniform. Come on out!"

Gordon, ever the showman, came down the steps with an exaggerated swagger to his walk. He was dressed in lightweight black cargo pants tucked into straight black boots that came up to mid-calf and were topped by a neon orange stripe, much like the boots the boys currently wore, only with less heel and more tread. A matching orange stripe ran up the side of each pant leg, intersected by the pockets, with the flaps on the pockets trimmed in the same color. A barely seen zipper ran around the pant legs just above the knee.

His belt was woven and bright, and a holster hung from it on the right hip. In the holster sat one of their regulation pistols. The black jacket he wore looked like it was leather, and was trimmed with a narrower band in the garish neon across each shoulder and down the sleeve to the wrist. A wider strip of color ran down the front on the left side, with the IR logo cutting through it over the left breast. Beneath the logo, within the confines of the stripe, was an embroidered Greek letter, omicron.

He took off the jacket to reveal a tight, Spandex-type shirt with a mock turtleneck and short sleeves. It fit him very snugly, and showed off nearly every muscle beneath it. It, too, was bright orange, and shiny, almost as if it had sequins on it. Wide black stripes flowed from the collar to the edge of each sleeve, and the IR logo was sewn on the left one. His black baseball style cap was trimmed in his favorite color, and below it, the visor gleamed, covering half his face above the cocky grin. He wore what looked like black leather driving gloves on his hands.

"It's all made of Penelon," Tin-Tin announced proudly. "There would be a long-sleeved turtleneck and heavier trousers for colder weather, as well as a fleece lining to the jacket and a heavy knit cap. For warmer weather, a lighter weight windbreaker style jacket can be substituted. And for hot weather, you can zip off the bottom of the pants and use ankle-high hiking style boots. Plus," she said, making a quick dash for the lights switch and throwing the room into darkness, "the trim all glows in the dark. Stays this bright for four hours." The uniform and hat trim did glow in the dark, and quite intensely, too. Turning on the lights again, she gestured theatrically to Gordon, who was turning around, walking toward his father, then John as if a model on a runway. "So? What do you think?"

"It's certainly, uh, bright," Brains said, his eyes wide behind his glasses.

"And the shirt sure is, uh, shiny," Alan added, an incredulous look on his face.

"I like the pants," Virgil remarked. "But I think the color effect would work better if the stripe on them carried down into the boot, instead of being cut off by the strip around the top."

"We have enough trouble with the ladies as it is, Theta," Scott commented. "That tight shirt would multiply our troubles exponentially."

"That whole thing will suck with neon purple as a trim," John groused. "I might as well stick to lavender."

Gordon was making muscle poses now, flexing his arms to let triceps and biceps show. "I kinda like the shirt," he said. "The current uniform gives me little opportunity to... ahem... flex my muscle."

The assemblage groaned at the pun. Tin-Tin turned her eyes to Jeff, who hadn't yet said a thing. "M... Commander? What do you think?"

Jeff stared at Gordon for a long moment, tapping his stylus on his chin. Then finally he spoke. "Omicron? Come here."

Gordon approached the desk. Jeff made a twirling motion with his finger pointed downward. "Turn around."

His son did as instructed, showing his back to his father and glancing over his shoulder. "Bend over."

Everyone looked puzzled as Gordon bent over at the waist. "Squat down," Jeff ordered. The aquanaut obeyed and Jeff leaned over to see the results. "Good. No butt cleavage."

There was a moment of silence, then the whole group exploded into laughter. Gordon fell on the floor, holding his sides. Jeff looked on with weary amusement, then signaled for quiet. "Okay. Here are my thoughts. The stretchy shirt is okay as long as it's not shiny. The pants are okay as far as style goes, as is the jacket. Take Delta's suggestion on the stripe for the boots, or eliminate the color stripe entirely. Keep the footgear and the gloves black, but do everything else in dark blue. That should tone down some of the high contrast we're seeing here. And remove the Greek letter. I expect we'll be changing code names from time to time, and besides, how many people are going to know what it is anyway?" He turned to John. "Epsilon, if you don't think neon purple would work, choose another color entirely. Same goes for you, Rho, if brown doesn't work."

"With dark blue, a royal purple might work," John mused aloud. "So might a brown, if it can be made to glow in the dark." Brains nodded thoughtfully.

"Oh, one more thing," Jeff said. "No gold lamé shirt for me. Scrambled eggs on the cap visor and gold-toned stripes with a dark blue shirt will have to do." He looked around at the assembly. "Any more comments or questions?"

"I still think that shirt is going to cause trouble with the opposite sex," Scott reiterated. "And not just for us, either. Just imagine Theta in it."

"Ooh la la!" quipped Gordon. "I can imagine." Alan picked up a sofa pillow and threw it at him, while Tin-Tin stood with her arms crossed, giving him an icy stare.

"Okay, okay, people. No pillow fighting this time," Jeff warned irritably. "You're all dismissed." He turned to John. "Anything you need from us, Epsilon?"

"No sir."

"Then we'll talk later, Thunderbird Five. Base out." John's live picture winked out, replaced by his portrait.

Everyone eventually filed out of the room save Scott, who moved to stand before his father's desk, and Virgil, who went to pull some sheaves of paper out of his piano bench, then arranged them on his music stand. He sat down and began to softly play.

"Dad? Can I talk to you for a couple of minutes?" Scott asked. He noticed that his father was shielding his eyes from the light with one hand and rubbing his forehead at the same time with those shielding fingers.

Jeff looked blearily up at his eldest. "Can it wait until tomorrow, Scott? I think I need to hit the hay relatively early tonight."

"Sure, Dad. You look rough. Get some more sleep."

"That's what Lou said," Jeff muttered as he got up from his chair and slowly walked across the room. He lifted a hand in farewell as he left the room. "Goodnight, boys."

"Goodnight, Dad." "Sleep well, Dad."

Scott sat back in Jeff's chair, and pulled out a newspaper from the trash can behind the desk. "Hey, an empty crossword!" Finding a pen in the desk drawer, he began to read the clues, muttering under his breath, not paying much heed to what his brother was playing. Virgil smiled slightly; he was glad Scott had tuned him out. He really didn't want any comments made during his first public performance of "Pink Lady".

Five in the morning, and Shelly Clarendon was ready for work. She picked up her purse and her keys, and removed her satellite phone from the charger. Glancing at the refrigerator in passing, she saw a bright pink note pinned there by a magnet. It was in her husband's unruly scribble and said, "Call Lou from work". Beneath the message was a number. "Hmm, wonder what prompted Lou to actually call?" she murmured as she took the note down and placed it in her purse with her phone. "I'll call her on my breakfast break." And with that, she left the house for the day.

James Franks was in his sedan, waiting on his quarry. He watched her get into her car, and waited for a few extra seconds before pulling out after her. It was still dark on the roads, and rather empty, so he had to be careful as he followed her. Finally, she pulled into the parking lot of the retirement center, parked her car, picked up her handbag, and walked briskly into the building, leaving behind her phone, which had fallen out of her bag unnoticed.

Franks waited for about thirty minutes, watching from a store parking lot across the street, just to make sure that all the workers who reported at that particular time had arrived. Then he took a small square gadget from his stainless steel briefcase. It looked like the remote control for a car's electronic lock, but not quite. This little gadget could detect the frequency used by a remote for a particular car and mimic it, allowing for entry into the vehicle without triggering alarms. First he approached her car, openly, confidently. Look like you belong there, like you know what you're doing. He peered inside and smiled. The satellite phone was on the passenger seat, just as he expected it to be. People are so predictable. And so trusting. He held up the little square to the door, holding down a black button, glancing down at it every so often as a tiny red light blinked off and on. Suddenly, there was a click, and the door locks popped up.

He opened the door with his gloved hand, reached across carefully to the passenger seat and grabbed the phone. Tucking it into his shirt pocket, he locked the door again behind him. He took a small, sharp object out of his jacket pocket and, going around to the rear passenger wheel, reached up and inserted its two sharp, connected prongs into two parallel treads of the tire. When she pulls out, this will be pushed into the tire and, after a tenth of a mile, the prongs will fall inside and the connecting bar will peel off. Then within another mile, she'll have a flat. That's when I move in.

At nine in the morning, Shelly went out to her car. Unlocking it, she searched for her phone, but came up empty handed. Hmm. I thought I put it in my purse this morning. But it's not there, and not out here either. She shrugged. Oh well, I probably left it at home after all. In that case, I'll wait to call until after work.

Across the street, Jim Franks watched her, and smiled.