They Will Come
folder
S through Z › Thunderbirds
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
7
Views:
5,252
Reviews:
11
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
S through Z › Thunderbirds
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
7
Views:
5,252
Reviews:
11
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Thunderbirds, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
The Signal
Author's note: I'VE FINISHED MY NOVEL!!! Thisa vea very exciting moment for me since I've been working on it for ages. I've not sent it off to any publishers yet, but I will do once I've had a couple of people read through it and give me their comments and criticisms.
***
The slave stood at one of the basins in the ward's bathroom. He'd been in the shower for over an hour, but he could still feel his master's filth on him. So he was scrubbing at his hands, hands that had been made to pump his master to climax. Hands that had learned where to touch to give pleasure so that he would be rewarded. Hands that would never be clean again.
He rubbed the thin bar of soap over them, until they were sore from the action, but still he scrubbed. He rinsed away the bubbles, but still he could feel the sickly touch. The water wasn't able to cleanse the wounds in his spirit. He had been violated and used and that wasn't something that could just wash away.
"Don't you think your hands are clean?" It was a slightly amused question. The man had come in and showered in the time the slave had been there at bas basin. The slave shook his head mutely.
"You're him, aren't you?" the man asked, "The guy all the news crews in town are wanting to speak to."
"No cameras," the slave muttered, "no interviews."
"Yeah, I don't blame you. I wouldn't want to talk to the media either if I'd been through what you have." The man took a step closer and it took all the slave's strength not to back away.
"I'm sorry," the man said, "I know it's not worth much, but I'm sorry for what you've been through. I'm sorry that bastards like that even exist. At least they'll get what's coming to them now." What's coming to them. Coming.
The slave stared at his face in the mirror. Blond hair framed a pale face and eyes, fro from crying, stared back at him in hollow despair. Who was he now? He wasn't the slave anymore. He wasn't the person he had been in that dim, distant past. No one was coming for him. What was he but a used plaything, filthy and vile? They hadn't come for him and now he was nothing.
He left the bathroom to go back to his room off the ward. He could see the police officer there. There was always one close by. This one was arguing with other people. People who were wheeling a trolley of recording and transmission equipment. Interviewers.
"If he wishes to give interviews, he will do so when he is ready," the police officer was saying. He was deliberately not looking at the slave and the interviewers clearly weren't interested in just another man in a hospital gown.
"Can we at least have his name?" a blond woman asked. Her hair and make-up seemed fixed in place, a plastic model of a woman. Why did she hide behind a fashionable appnce?nce? Did she feel dirty too? Did she want to keep her true self hidden behind layers of foundation because she was ashamed of it?
The slave paused by the equipment trolley. They must be from a radio station, since there was no sign of a camera. Everything was neatly stored in special sections of the trolley: microphones stowed with their cords wrapped around them; transmitter carefully padded for protection.
Still unnoticed by the interviewers, the slave twisted the dial on the transmitter, setting it to a familiar frequency. They hadn't come for him, but they would come for this. He would make them understand what they had done to him by abandoning him. He would show them how he had suffered.
"Be careful with that," the blond woman said, finally seeing the slave, "that's delicate equipment." The slave didn't listen. He just flipped the switch.
"Hey! Don't do that!" The woman snapped. She quickly shut off the transmitter again, knocking the slave's hand out of the way in the process. It didn't hurt, but the slave snatched his hand to himself anyway, flinching away from contact instinctively.
"What were you playing at?" she demanded angrily. The slave drew back. Anger meant punishment. Anger meant pain.
He hugged his arms around himself, trying to remember that this place was different. This was a hospital, not his master's brothel. That woman wouldn't be allowed to hurt him. The slave gave a slight shrug in answer to her question and then slipped inside his room, while she just stared after him.
He leaned back against the closed door. The signal had gone out for maybe a second, but it would be enough. There hadn't been any microphones plugged in, so all that would go out was an empty transmission, a signal without content, but it would be enough. They would have no choice but to respond.
The s sat sat dow the the bed, hugging his knees to his chest, and repeated his mantra with far more confidence than ever before. "They will come for me. They will come for me. They will come for me."
***
Scott was in his father's study, reading the paper, when the eyes on John's portrait started flashing. Scott set aside the paper as his father gave the go ahead. The picture was immediately replaced by a live transmission from Thunderbird five.
"Father, I've just picked up a transmission, of sorts."
"What do you mean, 'of sorts'?"
"It was only for a second and there wasn't actually any message, but the signal came on the International Rescue emergency frequency."
"But we're all here," Scott said, "There aren't any Thunderbirds out." A thought was beginning to form in his mind, a fragment of hope he didn't dare voice in case it shattered.
"It's possible someone just hit on the frequency by accident," John said and Scott knew he said it just so they didn't get their hopes up too high. So many times they thought they'd found a lead into what had happened to Alan, only to be disappointed by what they actually discovered.
"We need to check it out nonetheless," Father said, "whereabouts did the signal come from?"
"Seabury. It's a small town on the coast of California," John answered.
"Scott, take the jet. We don't want to cause a panic in case it was just an accident. John will send the co-ordinates directly to you and I'll get you clearance to land at the nearest airfield. Report back as soon as you've found something."
"Yes, sir," Scott answered gladly. He had to contain himself to keep from running as he made his way to the jet. He made a short detour at his room to grab his wallet. Being a member of International Rescue tended to get things done very quickly without any questions. As an ordinary civilian, he had to find other methods and money generally worked well.
The jet was state of the art but, compared to the Thunderbirds, it seemed to take far too long to get underway. He had to get there. He had to know who had sent the signal. He prayed it was Alan, the little brother that had vanished four years earlier. But he remembered the news stories, about a young man in Seabury hospital, and he wondered if perhaps he was in fact wishing torture on his baby brother. He wasn't sure whether it was better to hope that the man was Alan or not, but he would do anything to get Alan back.
Once, when they had first moved to the island after their mother's death, Alan had wandered too far exploring. He had become lost in the jungle and spent most of the night there, crying and afraid. When Scott had found him, the only one of the brothers considered old enough to help search, he had made Alan a promise that, no matter what, he would always come for him.
"Alan, please be you," Scott whispered, "please be alive."
***
The slave stood at one of the basins in the ward's bathroom. He'd been in the shower for over an hour, but he could still feel his master's filth on him. So he was scrubbing at his hands, hands that had been made to pump his master to climax. Hands that had learned where to touch to give pleasure so that he would be rewarded. Hands that would never be clean again.
He rubbed the thin bar of soap over them, until they were sore from the action, but still he scrubbed. He rinsed away the bubbles, but still he could feel the sickly touch. The water wasn't able to cleanse the wounds in his spirit. He had been violated and used and that wasn't something that could just wash away.
"Don't you think your hands are clean?" It was a slightly amused question. The man had come in and showered in the time the slave had been there at bas basin. The slave shook his head mutely.
"You're him, aren't you?" the man asked, "The guy all the news crews in town are wanting to speak to."
"No cameras," the slave muttered, "no interviews."
"Yeah, I don't blame you. I wouldn't want to talk to the media either if I'd been through what you have." The man took a step closer and it took all the slave's strength not to back away.
"I'm sorry," the man said, "I know it's not worth much, but I'm sorry for what you've been through. I'm sorry that bastards like that even exist. At least they'll get what's coming to them now." What's coming to them. Coming.
The slave stared at his face in the mirror. Blond hair framed a pale face and eyes, fro from crying, stared back at him in hollow despair. Who was he now? He wasn't the slave anymore. He wasn't the person he had been in that dim, distant past. No one was coming for him. What was he but a used plaything, filthy and vile? They hadn't come for him and now he was nothing.
He left the bathroom to go back to his room off the ward. He could see the police officer there. There was always one close by. This one was arguing with other people. People who were wheeling a trolley of recording and transmission equipment. Interviewers.
"If he wishes to give interviews, he will do so when he is ready," the police officer was saying. He was deliberately not looking at the slave and the interviewers clearly weren't interested in just another man in a hospital gown.
"Can we at least have his name?" a blond woman asked. Her hair and make-up seemed fixed in place, a plastic model of a woman. Why did she hide behind a fashionable appnce?nce? Did she feel dirty too? Did she want to keep her true self hidden behind layers of foundation because she was ashamed of it?
The slave paused by the equipment trolley. They must be from a radio station, since there was no sign of a camera. Everything was neatly stored in special sections of the trolley: microphones stowed with their cords wrapped around them; transmitter carefully padded for protection.
Still unnoticed by the interviewers, the slave twisted the dial on the transmitter, setting it to a familiar frequency. They hadn't come for him, but they would come for this. He would make them understand what they had done to him by abandoning him. He would show them how he had suffered.
"Be careful with that," the blond woman said, finally seeing the slave, "that's delicate equipment." The slave didn't listen. He just flipped the switch.
"Hey! Don't do that!" The woman snapped. She quickly shut off the transmitter again, knocking the slave's hand out of the way in the process. It didn't hurt, but the slave snatched his hand to himself anyway, flinching away from contact instinctively.
"What were you playing at?" she demanded angrily. The slave drew back. Anger meant punishment. Anger meant pain.
He hugged his arms around himself, trying to remember that this place was different. This was a hospital, not his master's brothel. That woman wouldn't be allowed to hurt him. The slave gave a slight shrug in answer to her question and then slipped inside his room, while she just stared after him.
He leaned back against the closed door. The signal had gone out for maybe a second, but it would be enough. There hadn't been any microphones plugged in, so all that would go out was an empty transmission, a signal without content, but it would be enough. They would have no choice but to respond.
The s sat sat dow the the bed, hugging his knees to his chest, and repeated his mantra with far more confidence than ever before. "They will come for me. They will come for me. They will come for me."
***
Scott was in his father's study, reading the paper, when the eyes on John's portrait started flashing. Scott set aside the paper as his father gave the go ahead. The picture was immediately replaced by a live transmission from Thunderbird five.
"Father, I've just picked up a transmission, of sorts."
"What do you mean, 'of sorts'?"
"It was only for a second and there wasn't actually any message, but the signal came on the International Rescue emergency frequency."
"But we're all here," Scott said, "There aren't any Thunderbirds out." A thought was beginning to form in his mind, a fragment of hope he didn't dare voice in case it shattered.
"It's possible someone just hit on the frequency by accident," John said and Scott knew he said it just so they didn't get their hopes up too high. So many times they thought they'd found a lead into what had happened to Alan, only to be disappointed by what they actually discovered.
"We need to check it out nonetheless," Father said, "whereabouts did the signal come from?"
"Seabury. It's a small town on the coast of California," John answered.
"Scott, take the jet. We don't want to cause a panic in case it was just an accident. John will send the co-ordinates directly to you and I'll get you clearance to land at the nearest airfield. Report back as soon as you've found something."
"Yes, sir," Scott answered gladly. He had to contain himself to keep from running as he made his way to the jet. He made a short detour at his room to grab his wallet. Being a member of International Rescue tended to get things done very quickly without any questions. As an ordinary civilian, he had to find other methods and money generally worked well.
The jet was state of the art but, compared to the Thunderbirds, it seemed to take far too long to get underway. He had to get there. He had to know who had sent the signal. He prayed it was Alan, the little brother that had vanished four years earlier. But he remembered the news stories, about a young man in Seabury hospital, and he wondered if perhaps he was in fact wishing torture on his baby brother. He wasn't sure whether it was better to hope that the man was Alan or not, but he would do anything to get Alan back.
Once, when they had first moved to the island after their mother's death, Alan had wandered too far exploring. He had become lost in the jungle and spent most of the night there, crying and afraid. When Scott had found him, the only one of the brothers considered old enough to help search, he had made Alan a promise that, no matter what, he would always come for him.
"Alan, please be you," Scott whispered, "please be alive."