Wings

By The Lady Razorsharp

It would happen eventually, his brothers told him.

"You can't hurry it," Scott explained one day as they sat atop the roof of the villa, looking out over the Pacific. "You can't stop it, either. It happens when it wants to happen."

Alan turned the rock in his hand over and over, then stood and tossed it with all the force he could muster. The stone rocketed away and was gone, touching the clear aqua waves once, twice, three times before it disappeared.

"I'm still going," Alan told him. "I can't stay in this gilded cage forever."

Scott frowned. "Is that what you think this is? Al, this is freedom." He, too, got to his feet, great silver-grey pinions automatically fluttering to balance him. "You know what they'd do to us. Talk about cages-" He shook his head. "You're so young. You don't know how good you have it."

"Yeah, whatever."

A hand spun him around, fingers digging in to unadorned shoulders. "No, not whatever." Scott wasn't often angry, and he wasn't now; it was the worry and protectiveness of an eldest brother who'd been down that road that brought the fire to his sapphire eyes. "You're bound and determined, so I'm going to let you-but don't expect me to come running when you fall flat on your face."

Alan grinned. "Don't worry. I won't call you."

Six months later, Alan was huddled on the bathroom floor in his one-bedroom campus apartment, sweat pouring down his face, his phone in his hand. A wave of fire raked through him, sending his dinner out of him in a noxious surge. He spat and flushed and cleaned himself up, then leaned his aching shoulders against the ice-cold tile of the wall. Through bleary eyes, he watched himself thumb through the numbers until the one he needed, but didn't want, came into view: Scott Tracy, with a photo of his brother flashing a peace sign at the camera. Alan stared at the tiny photo for a long minute, his head pounding, his back on fire.

His thumb pressed the name and then jabbed the speakerphone icon. One ring, two-

"Alan-?"

"Scotty," Alan sobbed.

"I'm here, little bro, I'm here." There was a rustling in the background, long primaries brushing the surface of the bed as Scott sat up. "Are you okay?"

"I think...I think it's started," Alan blurted. "I was in class this afternoon and all of a sudden I felt like I was gonna throw up and the room was too hot so I just grabbed my stuff and bolted. Then my back hurt so bad…" Another sob escaped him, both at the memory of pain and its present reality. "I don't really remember getting home...when I got here, I...I couldn't wear my shirt anymore, it hurt so much."

Scott's voice was calm, and so cool that Alan could almost feel the waves of relief sliding against his skin. "That's normal, buddy. How you doing now? Getting any easier?"

"Yeah." Alan reached for a length of toilet paper and blew his nose. "It's not so bad right now. Just before I called you it was so bad I puked."

"Oh, Al." Genuine pity in Scott's voice brought tears of a different kind into Alan's eyes. "I'm sorry, bud. Try to keep hydrated. Virgil found that out the hard way; we had to plug him into an IV, he got so bad."

"I remember." Thoughts of their middle brother and his massive emerald span made a smile flit across Alan's sweaty face. "I've got some Gatorade around here, I'll be okay."

"Good. We'll be there in the morning, all right? If you don't think you can make it till then, I'll grab Virgil and we'll leave right now."

"No, don't wake him. I'm all right, really." A pang of sadness tugged at Alan's heart, and he sagged against the tiles. "I...I didn't want to call, Scotty. I really wanted to stay."

A sigh. "I know you did, Al. It'll be okay. We'll talk about it tomorrow."

"Okay." Alan blew his nose again. "Thanks, Scott."

"Anytime. Love you."

"Love you too."

Alan hung up, pressing the phone against his forehead for a moment as if gathering strength from the electronic remnants of his brother's words. It would be all right, he thought, getting shakily to his feet. It was a shame having to leave his friends, his classes, the city he'd come to love-but their kind were only welcome on someone else's terms.

When there was trouble, of course, their arrival was heralded as a saving grace. Four brothers, soaring the skies and coming to humanity's rescue when all was lost: Scott, like airborne quicksilver; John swooping down as if borne by sunset orange and gold; Virgil, verdant and powerful; Gordon, gilded with sunshine on his back and in his soul. Now it would be Alan's turn to join them in the skies-but first, there was the trial to face, the awakening to endure.

That was why their parents had sought out their island aerie, there to raise their fledglings and protect their brood from the worst that humanity could dish out. There the boys would be safe, away from those who would hunt them one by one and tear them apart. Jeff and Lucille had known this day would come, and yet had raised them to love the world that had rejected them. Just as his brothers had done, Alan would train, he would learn, and then he would protect those who had scorned them.

The next morning, Scott, with pinions hidden by the cloaking device Brains had devised and hidden in the ordinary-looking watch, alighted from the taxi and asked the driver to wait. Scott entered the building, then glanced up at the many flights of steps with a rueful chuckle; being on the island did not accustom one to walking. Resisting the urge to engage in a little illicit flight, he trotted up the steps to Alan's fourth-floor apartment, counting the exertion as good exercise. He rapped on the door. "Come on, Al, it's me," he called. "Time to go."

No answer.

Scott didn't wait to knock a second time; the lug sole of his right boot met the door and jolted it open in a hard smack of rubber meeting wood. Then he was in the apartment, where the air was tinged with stale sweat and the coppery reek of blood. "Al?" he shouted, hurrying through the small apartment to the bathroom. Scott hit the door running; it banged against the wall, revealing Alan's limp form sprawled in the bathtub. He was shirtless, and his jeans were swimming in two inches of scarlet water. His head lolled onto his chest, eyes half closed, mouth open, a trickle of bloody saliva dripping from his badly bitten lower lip.

"Alan," Scott breathed, the word ending on a sob. "Al, come on, wake up." He gently tipped Alan forward, revealing twin carmine gashes in his back from ribs to shoulder. "Oh, shit, Alan-" Tears blurred his vision as he dug his phone out of his pocket and thumbed a number. "Virgil," he barked. "Get your ass up here now."

A young eternity later, the third-born was pounding up the stairs, having hidden himself around the corner in case of just such an emergency. He charged through the apartment and opened the door, his breath catching in his chest as he took in the sight of Scott, spattered with Alan's blood, holding their youngest fledgling in his arms. "When did this happen?" Virgil gritted.

"I dunno; I found him like this." Scott let go of Alan as Virgil eased the tortured young body into his arms. "We have to get him out of here, get him back to the island so he can finish this with Brains watching him."

"Damnit, this is gonna be messy." Virgil stood carefully as Scott backed out of the small bathroom. All three of them were trailing scarlet, drips and drops marring the worn lino and carpet. "Is the cleaning crew ready to take over?"

"I told Parker to stand by," Scott confirmed. "I didn't know it was gonna be this bad, though. I'll update him once we're in motion."

"FAB," Virgil breathed, settling Alan gently onto the rumpled bed, then rolling him over until he was resting on his stomach. The early morning sunlight brought the full horror of Alan's fledge into view, and both of his older brothers winced in sympathy. "Ugh, poor kid."

"Yeah," Scott agreed. "I'm glad he called."

"Me too." Virgil left the room briefly to retrieve the kit he'd brought with him, then returned and set to work cleaning the wounds that would need to stay open until the musculature and bone structure emerged. That was the hard part, they both knew. After that, the itch of emerging down and the indignity of molting were nothing more than an inconvenience until the feathers were fully grown. "If we can keep him from getting infected, he'll probably have a pretty easy time of it, after this."

The prone youngster began to stir under Virgil's hands, and Alan emitted a long, low groan. "Uuuggh. Anyone get the license plate of that semi that backed over me? Twice?"

Scott and Virgil shared a grin of pure relief. "Welcome back, little bro," said Virgil, swabbing the wounds with protective ointment. "How you doing?"

Alan hissed through clenched teeth. "Oh, just dandy."

Scott chuckled. "I bet." He squatted down, the air rippling as his invisible span steadied him. "We're going to let you rest for a while, then we're going to go on home."

A sigh. "Okay." Alan rolled his eyes up to his middle brother, face smushed against his pillow. "'Ey, Virge," he muttered. "Thanks for coming to the rescue."

One corner of Virgil's mouth quirked upward. "Anytime, kiddo."

For eight blissful hours, peace reigned in the small flat while Parker and his trio of cleaners worked steadily, but quietly, to remove all traces of Alan Tracy's existence from the place. From the proprietary cleaner that instantly lifted bloodstains from carpet to the deft keystrokes that erased Alan's name from the rolls of the university, the group was skillful and thorough. By the time they left, mops and brooms as well as other, more specialized tools in hand, Alan was beginning to moan in his sleep.

"Scotty," he groaned. "Scotty, help me…"

Scott jumped up from his seat, dropping his chopsticks with a clatter next to the white take-out container that held the remnants of his dinner. "I'm coming, Al." He arrived in his brother's small bedroom to witness Alan curling into a tight ball on his left side. "Virgil," he called over his shoulder, but Virgil was only two steps behind, having retrieved the med kit on his way in.

Casting a critical amber gaze over his brother's back, Virgil nodded. "Yep, here they come. Hand me that, would you?" Scott set the kit next to Virgil's knee, and their unofficial medic drew out a syringe and a small bottle of clear liquid. "It's gonna be okay, Alan. You'll feel better in a minute." Virgil measured out a precise dose of the painkiller, then slid the needle into the vein standing out in high relief on his brother's arm. Alan grunted at the puncture, but after a few moments, his body began to relax.

Scott's mouth was a hard line, but it too relaxed as his little brother began to breathe easier. "Time to go," he decided, and Virgil nodded.

"He'll be out for hours. Best to go now while he can't feel it."

They were out and gone in moments, and Alan Tracy disappeared from the world.

When they arrived back at the island, Gordon met them, sunlight sparkling as he trotted to a stop. John was close behind, more sedate but still majestic in his own right, his sea-green eyes alight even as his face wore a look of concern.

"Al!" Gordon yelled, eliciting a tired grin from his little brother. "Popped your cherry, hey?"

John groaned. "Gords, you peasant. Are you okay?" This last was to Alan, who had finally been released from the grip of his older brothers and was taking a few shambling steps on his own.

"I'm better than I was," Alan admitted. "I'm still pretty sore."

"Hm, I don't doubt it," John commiserated. "Get yourself down to Brains; he'll get you situated." He ruffled Alan's hair in lieu of a hug against tender skin and muscles. "Good to have you home."

Alan grinned, looking around at his brothers as they stood resplendent and potent in the warm island sunshine. "It's good to be home."

-three weeks later-

"Okay, Alan," said Brains, panting slightly as he caught his breath from the climb to the island's vista point. "Everything is w-working p-perfectly. You might f-feel a little stiffness, but the exercises you've been doing should take c-care of that." He adjusted his glasses. "R-ready to s-stretch your wings?"

One by one, all five Tracys lined up on the edge of the vista, their faces kissed by the sun and the wind in their hair.

"Five," pronounced John, spreading his wings in a huge expanse of shimmering sunset feathers.

"Four!" called Gordon, shaking out his span in a flash of bright noonday light.

As one, they all turned to Alan, faces expectant, open, waiting.

"Three," he breathed, unfolding wings of purest scarlet and shaking them out into the wind.

"Two." Virgil's emerald span spread out, brushing that of Alan's in fond welcome.

"One." Scott reached silvery pinions into the sky, then leapt into the air and soared, followed by his brothers.

Brains raised both hands in victory, grinning from ear to ear. "Thunderbirds are GO!"

-End-