Disclaimer: I don't own Thunderbirds.

The rumble of thunder rolled across the hills, sending vibrations straight through him as echoes reverberated all around the dusty valley. There were many words he could use for the machinery, but regardless of the fact his personal opinions on the matter tended to run contrary to the rest of the world, he had no intention of denying that the Thunderbirds were impressive.

Very impressive. A sheer stroke of genius, decades ahead of their time, and piloted by little more than children. The second generation of International Rescue – it would be a lie to say that he had never met them, but while he knew their names, their achievements, the last time he had clapped eyes on any of them personally, there had been nappies involved.

And only one of them, rather than the veritable swarm Jeff had since sired.

That same boy was now, regrettably, taller than him, although the lack of nappies was appreciated. Scott Tracy had not yet left the area – an unfortunate cavern collapse, trapping several miners deep inside with no choice but to call for the miracle of International Rescue. The elusive organisation had, of course, responded, with the sleek silver of Thunderbird One and the powerful green of Thunderbird Two appearing barely minutes after promising their aid.

He'd always known they were based nearby. The purchase of an entire island was difficult to conceal, especially from his own acquaintances, even if Jeff had long since cut ties to him. That still rankled, if he let the name Jeff float around in his mind for too long. Then again, that was the entire reason for this little outing.

Jeff might be long gone, in an accident that gave him conflicting feelings – satisfaction and rage – but his legacy was not. If Jeff Tracy wanted him to play the role of a villain, then he would do it, and do it properly.

There was never any use in only doing something half-heartedly.

From beyond the grave, he hoped Jeff regretted inviting him to take this path. If he didn't already, he certainly would by the time he triumphed victoriously over the Tracy legacy. International Rescue would topple, not for their beautiful, roaring machines – although no small part of him looked forwards to having those under his control – but because they were the sons of Jeff Tracy.

One step at a time. The injured miners – which just so happened to be all of them, it had been such a nasty cave-in – had been evacuated in Thunderbird Two, who was little more than a green speck on the horizon already, engine noises a whisper compared to the initial thunderous take off. Only three humans remained in this desolate strip of land – Scott Tracy, the wife of the landowner blubbering into his awful blue uniform, and him, the man slowly but surely approaching from behind.

The woman was wailing utterly pathetically, her arms wrapped around Scott Tracy like a vice. Ever the gentleman – ever the hero – he was doing what he could to console her for the devastation that had occurred on her husband's land. The entire affair was disgusting to the extreme, but sometimes one required to operate outside of one's comfort zones to get the desired results. A healthy dose of plausible deniability never hurt, either.

In this case, the desired result was the needle in his hand slipping into Scott Tracy's unguarded neck; like a naïve fool, he'd never even noticed his approach over the woman's wails for attention. The young man stiffened and attempted to turn, only to find himself imprisoned by the vice-like grip of the woman. It was too little, too late. The sedative was potent but fast acting – he knew Tracy tenacity better than most. Give them an inch and they would take a mile.

He gripped dark brown hair, stopping the head from turning, and counted the seconds of thrashing Tracy. It was fortunate his arms were pinned, otherwise he might have landed some nasty blows – the boy had spent some time in the military, and more time around his erstwhile niece – and it took some quick footwork to stop his kneecaps being caved in by a vicious stab backwards with a foot.

It took seven seconds of ever-weakening attempts at freedom before the sedative set in, and he found himself taking the weight of a muscular young man against him as Scott Tracy lost the battle against the drug.

He had been much lighter the last time he'd been this close to him, but he supposed the infant had grown up somewhat since then. The woman ceased her hysterics immediately and assisted him in dragging the limp, unco-operative form into an area sheltered by rocks before also ceasing to be a woman. The cloaking device rippled once, twice, to reveal one of his minions – he didn't know the name, nor did he particularly care to. He cancelled out his own disguise as well, the familiar buzzing hum of technology in his ears falling into silence.

"Boss?" The idiot wasn't looking at the downed Tracy, but rather the Thunderbird looming in front of them. Even Thunderbird One was a large machine, if usually dwarfed by the gigantic Thunderbird Two. He ignored him and the machine both for the moment, lowering Scott Tracy to the ground.

This close, it was obvious the apple hadn't fallen far from the tree in looks, as well as their ridiculous penchant for heroics. Not quite a dead ringer for Jeff Tracy at the same age, but with his eyes closed to hide the piercing blue that had surveyed the scene upon his first arrival, there was little difference. He even had his father's infernal dimples – no doubt women all flocked to fall at his feet, too.

His appearance was not of immediate concern, however – that honour went to his uniform. He had no doubt it was riddled with all sorts of technology equally as advanced as the Thunderbird near them, and the temptation was there to take the technology and leave the boy. Common sense prevailed, however. He would have all of their technology in time; after all, that was the plan. Making amendments to the plan at this stage would be the height of foolishness, and as taunting as the impressive technology was, a hasty attempt at retrieval would only end in disaster.

All this impressive technology left traces, trackable traces that would ruin everything, so it was with nimble fingers that he worked at the buckles on the baldric, setting it to one side delicately, before turning his attention to the uniform itself.

Maybe he should have some sort of emotional response – some restraint, if you will – to stripping a man young enough to be his own son down to his birthday suit, but notions such as morals had long since fled, if indeed he'd ever had some in the first place. After purposefully exploding a mine he owned (under a pseudonym, of course, he wasn't born yesterday) all in order to get his hands on Jeff's successor, the idea that even underwear was a potential tracking security risk far outweighed any concerns about an unconscious young man's perceived requirement of modesty.

It would be most tedious to go through this much effort only to be thwarted by something as avoidable as that. There was still the risk of an embedded device, which his niece or half brother might have had just enough paranoia to insist upon, but bug sweepers were easily enough obtained, with the right contacts.

He, of course, had the right contacts, and a knife handy in case some impromptu surgery was required. It was almost a disappointment that he came up clean. Almost. He might be the most villainous of villains, but he prided himself on not stooping to barbaric levels; that said, there was some merit to getting his hands dirty if required.

There was nothing more to be gained by remaining there. Folding up the uniform neatly – he was many things, but a slob was not one of those – and leaving it in the sheltered area behind the rocks, he turned his back on the Thunderbird's lusciously tempting presence and gathered the unconscious pilot into his arms. Scott Tracy was heavy, but despite his crisp, businessman appearance, he had done some physical labour in his life. Carrying an unconscious man was not beyond his abilities, even if this one was somewhat inconveniently tall.

"Come," he ordered to the minion, who had been gawking at the Thunderbird uselessly the entire time. If it wasn't for the fact that his schemes occasionally required some dumb muscle, he'd never keep any of the fools around. "We have what we came for."

"But, Boss," the idiot stumbled. "The Thunderbird? I thought-"

"I do not employ you to think," he cut in. "I employ you to obey."

Yes, the Thunderbird, unguarded, all alone, was most inviting, but he was no fool. If the uniform was a tracking risk, a Thunderbird was a tracking certainty. A man could go… missing, as the Tracys were about to unfortunately discover. It required far more careful planning to obtain a Thunderbird, and he wouldn't truly have any until he located their mysterious eye in the sky – another Thunderbird, to be sure, but one whose location was a far better protected secret than their little island base.

He would have them all in time, but first, he needed information, and who better to get that from than the commander himself?

"I hope you enjoy your little nap," he murmured to the man in his arms, whose head lolled back limply in unconsciousness. He had not yet decided if his likeness to Jeff would be in his guest's favour or not, but whichever way it fell, he did not think the immediate future would be particularly pleasant for the young man. "I fear our conversations may not be quite so much to your liking."

Hidden behind the collapsed mine, his ship roared into life. While not quite so loud a thrum as the earlier departing Thunderbird, the noise was still of the impressive variety, and he strode towards it confidently as the loading ramp lowered to the ground with a muffled thud.

"Welcome aboard," he declared to his unconscious armful as they entered. "I would say I hope you enjoy your stay, but I fear the hospitality may not be to your liking. In fact, I highly doubt it."

A small smirk played across his lips. No, Scott Tracy would not enjoy his stay one bit, but that was of little concern to him. Jeff's legacy would crumble, and the technology of International Rescue would be his.

As soon as Scott Tracy told him what he wanted to know.

And he would.

Fifth sense, fifth fic. This time it's Hear, from Gumnut's SensorySunday challenge. I actually have a plan for this one, although we'll see if that sticks at all. Previous experience suggests no.

Thanks for reading!
Tsari