It had been raining for nearly two days.

While that wasn't something that mattered to International Rescue; nor to John up in Thunderbird Five; nor to Gordon who was nearly always in the water one way or another anyway; nor to Alan who, alongside Brains, had his nose buried in a newer and faster engine design for his growing fleet of race cars; nor to Jeff since he was in Manhattan anyway; nor to Grandma who'd gone along for the trip; nor to Virgil or Kyrano who both found rain soothing; nor to Tin-Tin who was visiting Lady Penelope in England, well...there was one resident of Tracy Island whose moods were just as affected by Nature as they were by events that occurred around him. That resident? Scott Tracy.

He'd never admit to it in a month of Sundays, but if their island saw continuous cloud cover or more than a few hours of rain over a five-day period, it bothered Scott. Virgil wasn't entirely sure why, but he knew some people were just more sensitive to their environment than others. On bright, sunny days...which Tracy Island saw more of than anything...Scott was his typical go get 'em self. He was usually up in the morning a good four hours before Virgil even contemplated rolling out of bed – rescues notwithstanding – and stayed awake late into the night working on whatever it was that had his attention at the moment.

So once he'd completed his in-depth systems analysis on Thunderbird Two, and liaised with John in the space station about an experiment they were conducting on Five that dealt with a new space rescue pod the two were building together, Virgil decided it was time to seek out his older brother. Because a Scott after two days of rain and no rescue calls was usually a Scott stretched as tight as a new snare drum.

He made his way up the main elevator from Two's hangar. When the doors slid open he immediately heard the sound of heavy, steady rain traveling into the hallway from the main office. Quietly as he could, he stepped out onto the polished hardwood floor and made his way through a short bit of hallway until he reached the entry to the lounge. In the blink of an eye, he knew he'd been right to be concerned about Scott.

Across the vast room that served as a combination family room, office, lounge and nerve center for International Rescue, Scott stood looking out an open sliding glass door. His posture was rigid; his arms were folded tightly over his chest. Every angular line of his body screamed out "Stress!" even though there really wasn't any cause for it on the island at all right now.

Virg closed his eyes and listened to the rain. Listened to the sound it made as it hit the large, leafy plants native to their South Pacific home. Listened to the sound of it falling on the villa roof; of it moving through the gutters to drain down the sides of the small mountain the house was nestled into. Listened as it hit the concrete balconies, the metal railings that surrounded them. As it fell onto the staircase. As it deluged the pool.

Nothing, Virgil had always contended, compared to the relaxation offered by the sound of rain, or even of thunderstorms. He'd always enjoyed them, never afraid of the thunder-bumpers that blew up in Kansas or, later on, in Florida. Unlike both John and Alan, who'd been typically frightened little boys whenever thunder and lightning dared make its presence known, both Virgil and Gordon would actually seek out windows at those times and enjoy the sounds and sights together.

Virg knew that as a kid, Scott had no opinion one way or other about storms as long as they didn't last too long. And of course now, as adults, and as pilots and rescuers, storms meant completely different things to them all. They could cause terrible devastation that would require the presence of International Rescue. They could cause a lot of trouble for the Thunderbirds if they were roiling around the Danger Zone. They could make Scott's job a lot harder sometimes...and often had.

But this wasn't a storm. It was simply rain. And it wasn't a rain that they had to try and rescue mudslide victims from, or battle through to perform complex tasks made harder by rain-slicked buildings or equipment. This was just plain old ordinary innocent rain at home on their island. It was steady. It was soothing. It was relaxing.

Except to Scott.

Virgil opened his eyes. His brother's position hadn't changed one iota, though Virg was pretty sure Scott knew he was there.

After a few more seconds of watching Scott vibrating like he was plugged directly into the island's power plant, Virg glanced to his left and noted his new and shiny black Steinway Model D Grand Piano just sitting there waiting to bring music to life. Then he looked back at Scott. Then beyond Scott to the rain. Then back at his piano.

Virgil smiled.

He moved across the office floor, quietly scooted the piano bench out and sat down. Gently he opened the fallboard, sliding it back into its resting place to reveal the ebony and ivory keys he'd loved since the first time he'd sat down at a piano when he was only three.

He looked up at his brother, eyes not needing to be on the clavier for his fingers to know which keys to touch.

God, Scott was tense.

Closing his eyes, Virgil let the sound of the downpour encompass him again. Loud and yet as soft as a feather. All-encompassing yet not pervasive. This time his musician's ear picked up birdsong as it punctuated the steady white noise surrounding them. He could identify the White-eyes and the Malaus, which were really the only two types of birds on Tracy Island if you didn't count the straggling seagulls that came and went year-round.

Rain.

Birdsong.

Nature.

It flowed into his ears, swirled around and around in his mind. And his fingers began to move.

His right foot depressed the soft pedal. The pressure his fingers used to bring notes forth from the Grand's open-lid frame was barely there. The music began to flow so softly Virgil wondered for a moment if Scott could even hear it against Nature's backdrop.

Virg opened his eyes and focused on his brother. And had to smile. Because Scott's posture had changed: so minutely Virg doubted whether any island resident but him would notice, yet it had definitely happened.

Slowly, steadily, low tones filled the air, sliding along the floor and walls and furniture until they reached the open sliding glass doors where they could venture forth to play among the raindrops.

Virgil paused.

Scott's shoulders lowered a fraction of an inch.

One octave higher, gently rising and falling, blanketing the room alongside the humidity. Sliding under the White-eye's chirp, cradling the call of an egg-laying Malau in the gentle, loving arms of the treble clef.

Virgil paused.

White-knuckled fists gave way to loosened fingers, Scott's arms relaxing but remaining folded.

The Malau called out that its eggs were buried, safe and sound along the shore where its babies would grow, hatch and dig their way out to begin their lives. The melody softly cascaded down along the scale from C to C, the tang of a B-flat heightening the bird's announcement even as the natural chord of E, C and G softened the blow. For sixty seconds Virgil played the scale up and down.

Then he paused.

Scott's arms unfurled from his chest and lowered to his sides.

An F-sharp and G-flat Major Triad, left and right hands mirroring each other's position, rose next from the Grand's perfectly-tuned strings. Virgil slid his fingers off the ebony, delicately laying an arpeggio base on the ivory that trickled outward until it reflected the constancy of water falling from the sky. Each three passes of arpeggio the Major Triad interrupted again as the call of the Malau faded, until Virgil knew it must have gone to the opposite end of the island where several of them had made a home.

He watched Scott. And he paused.

As though a tangible creature escaping Scott's nearly six-foot-three body, tension and worry unwound from his muscles, from each vertebra in his spine, and slithered out into the air to dissipate into the ether. To be carried away by each and every note's latent echo in the space between the Grand and the man looking out over gray unhappy skies.

A, C-sharp and E, the A Major Triad, hands once more in mirror of each other, one and three and five. A haunting melody sprung forth, still softly dampened by the pedal, still gently coaxed from the Steinway with the smooth adoration of a lover's reverent touch. A White-eye took up roost not far from the sliding glass door that Scott stood near and warbled its dismay at the weather. It wanted the aftermath now, wanted insects to come forth and inspect the sodden ground so it could fill its belly with them.

Fingers stretching to bring the A Dominant 7 Chord into being, Virgil kept his eyes on Scott, watching as with each chirp and tweet, with each passing second that the rain still bore down, with each subsequent note he struck on the clavier, the last of Scott's stiffness retreated. Like a warrior that realized it was faced with a foe it couldn't beat, it finally drained away like so much water carving grooves down the cliffs of the island.

Virgil stilled his hands.

The rain kept coming. Straight. Steady.

The White-eye ceased its calls, as though waiting to see what would happen next.

Scott moved one step to the right and slowly lowered himself onto one of the couches that dotted the lounge space here and there. He looked across to where Virgil sat at the piano, hands now resting on his legs. Scott smiled.

Virgil returned the gesture.

Scott leaned back against the couch cushions.

Virgil's fingers touched the keys even more carefully this time. No sharps. No flats. Just natural tones, chords, single notes, half on bass clef and half on treble came forth. They wound up from the strings into the air like tendrils, traveling across the room as though they knew their destination. They wrapped themselves around Scott, caressing his face, kneading the last remaining vestiges of worry from his shoulders.

The rain was no longer a backdrop, but now an eager participant in the symphony being composed without paper or written notes; without any intent of repeating. It eased just long enough for the beginning of a larghissimo addition to Nature's orchestra, beats so slowly paced they were barely there. It then resumed its heavy downpour and Virgil responded with quiet, ancient answers to the questions it seemed to be asking. Answers that could only be found, he believed, in the flow of music that seemed to always come from the Universe itself.

And after five minutes, his foot eased off the soft pedal.

His hands lifted from the keys.

He slid the fallboard closed.

He looked across the room.

The steady rise and fall of his brother's chest told him all he needed to know.

Scott Tracy was asleep.

Virgil rose to his feet, quietly pushed the bench back into place beneath the piano, and left the room.

Mission accomplished.