No, I'm not doing Whumptober. The thought of "Thunderbirds Day" on September 30th put a little tickle in my brain and this is the result. A depressing way to celebrate the first airing of "Trapped In The Sky" but it is what it is. Not beta'd. Warning: character deaths.

(Cover picture from Michael Schwarzenberger at Pixabay.)

"Where is he?"

Gordon turned with a sigh, the island breeze ruffling his hair. "Where he always is on this day."

Virgil nodded. "Thanks."

He stepped from the balcony into the lounge. It was empty, as were the study and anywhere else his father could usually be found. He ran a hand along the sofa's back; it had been reupholstered in dark blue leather and was usually locked in position these days. Virgil shook his head. Taking that route wouldn't accomplish what he wanted. Instead, he put his back to the wall, took hold of the two light sconces, and was suddenly in Thunderbird One's hanger.

The rocket plane stood there, sending a sharp pang through Virgil's chest. He ached to ride the catwalk out, to open the cockpit and sit in the red chair, still marked with his brother's scent, worn with his weight and movement. Instead, he turned his gaze away, swallowing heavily.

Picking his way around the hangar, he headed toward the sole monorail platform. Once called, the car eased up; Virgil winced at a quiet squeal as it came to a halt before him.

"Need to get down here and figure out what's with these brakes."

The car trundled along, curving along past the boat pen and finally into Thunderbird Three's empty silo. As it circled the huge room, Virgil leaned out, peering down to the floor. He caught a glimpse of silver and blue positioned between the huge nacelle rests. His wrist communicator buzzed. Gordon's face appeared in the tiny screen.

"Was I right?"

Virgil nodded. "You were. I'm going to talk to him."

"I'll check in on Grandma and join you in the lounge."

"F-" Virgil bit off the old call sign. "See you there."

Getting to the floor was easier than picking up the monorail. An inspection platform acted as a lift from the monorail platform. Virgil was sure his father had heard the motor, but when he approached the rail car, Jeff didn't move his bowed head.

"Father?" Virgil climbed up, standing at one end of the blue sofa.

"Virgil."

Jeff swirled the pale liquid around in his glass before knocking it back and slumping with his tousled hair hanging behind the upper edge, his puffy eyes closed.

He needs a haircut. Virgil tucked the thought away for later. He scooped up the bottle of Glenfiddich just before his father reached for it. It was two-thirds empty.

He sat down, setting the bottle beside him, away from his father. Stretching his legs, he crossed them at the ankles and settled his hands behind his head. Gazing up, he could barely make out the lines of the silo's iris opening.

"It's not going to open again. Ever." Jeff's words slurred a little as he mimicked Virgil's posture.

"I know."

"We can do this, Dad. I know we can!" Alan sounded so certain. "Brains's new laser ram will give us the leverage we need to move this thing."

Jeff turned to his oldest son. "Scott?"

Scott nodded without hesitation "I agree, Father. We can do this."

Jeff took in a deep breath. He gestured toward the couch. "Off you go then."

"I keep waiting for them. Waiting for them to ask for permission to land. Waiting for Scott to come in from the hangar."

"I'm sorry, Father." Scott's voice sounded strained. "We've moved it, but not enough. Two nacelles are damaged beyond repair. Alan's trying to fix the third but it's not looking good."

He paused, looking over his shoulder as Alan came up in the lift. The younger man shook his head.

Scott took a deep breath before returning to the communicator. "Tell Brains it wasn't his fault; this asteroid has a number of smaller rocks traveling with it. We didn't even see them coming." He closed his eyes. "I'm sorry, Father."

"I can almost pretend John or Alan is up there, that Thunderbird Five still sits in orbit over the Island."

"If I plan the trajectory right and build up enough speed, I can move the main asteroid the rest of the way." John's fingers were flying over his consoles. "I'll have to slingshot around to build momentum but I can do this. I must do this!"

"John! I forbid it!" Jeff's face was pale despite his anger. "We'll find a way to get you back down to Earth."

John stilled and looked his father full in the face. "Father, if I don't do this—if I don't at least try this—there'll be no Earth to come back down to. I can't give up. You taught me, taught us that." He took a deep breath, much as Scott had. "I'm sorry, Father. I love you."

The picture winked out.

"So do I." A long pause, then Virgil sighed. "The World President is laying a wreath at the new memorial. She's declared it 'Thunderbirds Day'."

Jeff scowled, his brow deeply furrowed. "F**k that. It doesn't bring them back."

"No, but it reminds the world who saved them when no one else could."

Jeff snorted. "They don't even know who they were."

Virgil sat up. "You can change that. Tell the world who we are." He frowned. "Truthfully, I don't know why one of our rescuees hasn't said something already."

"I'm glad they haven't. We don't need the government trying to take the remaining Thunderbirds. Or make Brains give up their specs. It's a lousy day to do it, anyway."

Virgil didn't respond; they'd had this discussion before—with the same result.

He stood, stretching and picking up the bottle. "Well, lousy day or not, I'd like to see it. Gotta leave now if I'm going to make it to the lounge in time."

Jeff snorted again, shaking his head. "Pour me a couple more fingers and sit down. We can take the sofa back up."

"How about I sit back down and I'll join you in a drink once we're in the lounge? I bet Gordon would like a snort himself."

Jeff glared up at his son who returned the gaze, one thick brown eyebrow raised. He jerked his head toward the empty space beside him.

"All right. Sit down."

Virgil sat abruptly as Jeff pressed the remote to send them back along the track. As they headed away from the silo, he watched as the nacelle blast cups grew smaller. The silo's lights went out. He closed his eyes and swallowed hard. Thunderbirds Day. Dad's right; it is a lousy day to remember.