Disclaimer: I don't own Thunderbirds.

The silence was probably not a good thing. Nor was the ever-encompassing black all around him-

Oh, his eyes were closed. That explained that. He sent a sharp command to his eyelids to open, but they refused to do any more than twitch. He ordered them again, clenching his jaw, and with a spike of pain lancing through his head in furious complaint, they obeyed.

It was still black. That was odd. He forced his protesting eyelids to close and re-open in a painfully slow blink. Still black.

Panic gnawed at him, settling in his bones and suffocating his lungs. Black, all black. Blind the voice in his head wailed, hysterics already trying to set in as his chest heaved, trying to find air that just wasn't there.

That prompted another thought, a memory that slammed the panic back into its box at the back of his mind.

Of course there wasn't air. He wasn't blind. He was in space. A mission with a giant freighter in distress and crew in need of evac.

He was in space and it was silent. Well, that made sense. Sound didn't travel in space. He forced another blink and this time a dark blue fuzz invaded his periphery. His helmet.

His helmet was on. That was a good thing.

So why was it so silent?

"Thunderbird Three?" he croaked. "Alan?"

Nothing. His own voice bounced around the confines of his helmet, but there was no click to indicate a connection from his comms. No static to inform him the unit had taken some damage. Nothing.

He was floating, weightless and helpless. No communications. No way to stop his movement, and nothing except that endless void of black.

Where were the stars? Where was Earth? The Moon? The Sun?

Oh, he'd closed his eyes again. With a groan, he forced them open again.

It wasn't black anymore. Chunks of rock surrounded him, some no bigger than his palm, some bigger than Tracy Island. Asteroid belt that little voice whispered, and the panic burst back out of its little box, straining against his attempts to reign it in.

The freighter hadn't been anywhere near the asteroid belt.

Asteroid belt has a buckle, Uncle Lee's voice told him, but Uncle Lee wasn't here and he didn't know where one went about finding it. That was John's job. Or Alan's.

Not Scott's.

All right, let's take it from the top. Logic was John's thing, but panic was breaking through every defence he was raising against it and John would be telling him to start from the top, just like all those times he'd helped him with his physics after little brothers were gone to bed. Their little secret. They had a few secrets, actually. Big brothers united against little.

His thoughts were drifting. Back on task, Scooter. Scooter. He didn't hear that much anymore. Scotty, when one or more of his devilish brothers wanted something, but Scooter had been used by Dad just as much as his brothers. They'd all stopped using it after the Zero-X. Whether that had been a conscious change or not, he didn't know.

Maybe he should ask.

You're drifting again. He was, and vaguely he realised that that was a bad thing. Take it from the top.

Freighter in distress. Somewhere midway between the moon and Mars. Something-something fuel tank, risk of explosion, "we're on our way, John." Thunderbird Three left on standby, Alan complaining it was too dangerous to jetpack across. Grappling across.

Boom.

No sound; no sound in space. But light, bright, searing light that burnt his eyes. Light that blurred everything out, the black of space, the white of stars, the grey of the freighter. No blue and green marble.

No red.

Alan? Thunderbird Three?

What had happened next? He didn't remember. There was bright and then there was black, and nothing in between.

Now, there was light again. Dark grey rocks, with hint of brown and shining crystals of ice and all the things that made up an asteroid whirling around in front of him. A flash, light catching on metal. Torn metal, the bland grey of a freighter. Twisted, snarled all around itself like a work of art.

A memorial to the dead.

He still couldn't hear anything. His back slammed into something, hard.

That was probably bad. The voice in his head said something about did the suit tear? That was important. Why was it important?

Oh yes. Air. Did he still have air?

Red caught his attention in front of him, an unclear fuzz. Scott blinked, his eyes staying closed for several moments before remembering that a blink required the eyes to open again.

The red was still a fuzz. It was right in front of his nose, reminding him of Gordon shoving something too close to his face and his vision going funny as he tried to focus on it even as it got too close. Alan did that too, sometimes, when he was excited.

Alan. Red. Thunderbird Three.

Was that Thunderbird Three? Why would Thunderbird Three be right in front of his nose? Thunderbird Three was too big to make him go cross-eyed.

He closed his eyes again, letting them rest for a moment before demanding that they open again, and stop being so fuzzy. It wasn't funny. He needed to see Alan coming. Needed to know Alan was alright.

Twisted grey flashed by him again and fear clutched at his heart. What if it was so close because it wasn't all of Thunderbird Three?

ALAN!

He felt heavy. Funny. He was in space. He didn't weigh anything. He shouldn't feel heavy.

The red in front of his face halved in size suddenly, abruptly. Then it expanded, blurring out his vision until all he saw was a red mist. He couldn't breathe, his lungs tried hard, tried so, so hard, but nothing entered.

The red mist distorted, dispersing and being strangled by the black. No, Scott didn't want the black. He wanted the red. He wanted Alan and Thunderbird Three and-

Nothing.

So there's a new challenge going around on tumblr now called SensorySunday - one sense per week. This week, it's the sense of Sight!

Now, I was going to just wrap this fic up neatly with a little bow and call it done, but I got yelled at for that. So there will be more.