I hear his voice sometimes. It floats on the breeze that ruffles my hair as I walk the island's beaches. It hums along as I play my piano, and it rumbles above my Thunderbird's engines as I make my sighting sweep across a danger zone.

It's on rescues I hear him most often. Never the words, of course. I don't need words to recognize the tone in his voice - warning me when I've missed something, urging me to caution. At first, it was one of the things that kept me doing this. Coming out to rescues. I'd listen to those whispers on the wind and, even knowing I was lying to myself, I'd feel closer to my brother.

It helped give me a reason to go on. It still does, I guess. He died for International Rescue, because he believed in it. I can't betray his memory by turning my back on that sacrifice. So I come, and I listen to my subconscious speaking in my brother's voice, and I miss him every time.

There are times I watch Alan at Mobile Control and wonder if he can hear our brother too. Times when he stops and cocks his head, before looking at the situation in a new light. Times I see in Alan a reflection of the intuitive genius I miss so much.

Then I tell myself that I'm doing my youngest brother an injustice. Letting my imagination run away with me. I convince myself the voice is just an echo, my own mind striving to fill the hole that opened so suddenly in my life.

Until the day his voice thunders across the rescue zone, louder and clearer than I've ever heard it, authority crackling through the single word.

"Down!"

It doesn't occur to me to disobey. I'm reaching for Alan as I throw myself backwards to the ground, but I needn't bother. He dives forward, reaching for me in that very same moment. The two of us fall into an awkward embrace as an explosion fills the air with noise and chaos.

I know from the way Alan's eyes widen that he feels the jagged metal shaft that scythes through the air inches above his back. I let him roll off me. Both of us stare up at the ruins of Mobile Control, shredded by the same debris that could so easily have shredded us.

Dust settles.

My little brother shudders against my side.

"Thanks, Scott," he whispers, voice barely audible above the dying echoes of the explosion. He wears a guilty, half-embarrassed expression as he turns to me.

I meet his eyes, nodding, and Alan's frown eases. We share a moment of total understanding, before we stand to assess the damage.

Even in the midst of devastation there's a smile on my face. I should have known. I don't need the exasperated sigh on the breeze to tell me that.

It would take more than mere death to stop our big brother watching over us.