THE FRANCHISE by FRAN L RATED FRT

A factory fire brings to light a new range of merchandise. The team think it's hilarious, but Penelope isn't convinced... *Written in response to the Tracy Island Writers Forum's 2006 Fic Swap Challenge*

The police, the owners and the insurance company could only agree on one thing: the fire could have been a lot worse.

It was unlikely that the impressively tasteless factory building would be much missed. An unappealing conglomeration of red brick and iron, it looked as if it had wished to be put out of its misery since the turn of the century when it had first been imposed upon the scenery of Long Island. But, judging by the way the insurance detectives were scrabbling about all over the site, the business that had been contained within was of much more pressing concern than the spoiled architecture.

Scott could no longer bring himself to care. He stifled a yawn and glared down blankly at Mobile Control. It was late, he’d been forced to leave his steak dinner on the table untouched – obscene – in order to be here freezing his butt off in New York, and flapping officials were one of his least favourite things. It was especially galling to know, with hindsight, that they could’ve not got involved here at all. The fire hadn’t been anywhere near as dangerous as early indications suggested it might be, and reports of workers trapped in the basement floors had turned out, later, to be a false alarm. The relative closeness of the danger zone had seen Thunderbirds One and Two on the scene and ready to go before any of this became apparent, so they’d stuck around to help out.

But now Scott and his headache had had enough. He wanted a reheated steak and he wanted it now.

“No, no, please don’t bother, Scott, please, sit around and do nothing, it gives me such joy to keep you contented. Just because me and Alan have already stored the Domo, the Firefly and all the breathing gear shouldn’t mean that you feel in any way lazy and idle and a waste of space.”

Scott almost grinned as he turned tiredly around. Apparently Virgil was in no better mood than he was. In fact, there was a good chance that Virgil’s mood would be decidedly worse.

Scott grunted something akin to “Alright, alright,” mostly just to interrupt Virgil’s rambling, and reluctantly got to his feet. Virgil wandered off towards the Thunderbirds, with murmurs that weren’t necessarily aimed at Scott, and so he began disassembling Mobile Control. He was tantalisingly close to finishing up when some movements off to his left caught his eye.

The police tape had been set up some way away, so the growing crowd had been kept distant the whole time and the danger zone had been relatively subdued since the fire was eventually smothered. So, Scott’s attention, waning though it was, was easily caught.

It was a clash with Security. Scott stood immediately, hand moving to rest on his gun, eyes taking in the scene. A guard was trying to manhandle someone back over the barriers, but they were putting up a decent fight. Another guard was hastening to help, but he was too late. The figure broke free and began running directly for Scott. Adrenaline flooded his senses and the gun was free and aimed within seconds.

But he didn’t fire. He froze, eyes growing with surprise. The illusive intruder who had so successfully foxed the Security guards was just a little kid. He was tearing towards Scott, his eyes alight with exhilaration, and he was only slightly impeded by a third guard trying to tackle him. He leapt away at the last minute and the guard was left grapping at his ankle. The kid fell, rolled and was up and running again in a way that only skilled athletes and ten year-old boys can manage.

“Mister! Mister! Please wait, I gotta show you this!” he screamed breathlessly.

Distractedly, Scott returned the gun to its holster sighed. Within another few seconds the boy had run pretty much headlong into him and the inept guards almost followed suit. He grabbed the kid’s collar and waved Security away, with a tight smile and a “Good job” aimed at the nearest. As soon as they’d backed off, Scott pulled on the scruff of the jacket and jerked the boy to within an inch of his glare.

“What the hell do you think you’re playing at, kid?” he growled dangerously. “Do you have any idea how much trouble you could be in? This had better be real important, for your own sake.”

Originally elated from the chase, the boy now visibly wilted under Scott’s glare. After a few moments of trying, he finally found his voice.

“Th – they were hauling boxes outta that factory, and I… I took this outta one of them and I wondered if you’d… sign it for me?”

Scott’s eyes slid down from the whitened face to the object he took out of his jacket pocket. And then they slid shut as he realised what he was looking at. He was pretty sure his headache had just got worse.

“Penelope, dearest, sweetheart, light of my life, aren’t I paying you massive piles of money to find out about things like this before anyone else does?”

Jeff was reclining on the sofa, idly playing with a pen and enjoying the glare from his London Agent, pictured in her portrait tele-link on the wall. For effect, he reached lazily down and picked up from the floor the object Scott had managed to procure from the kid in Long Island. He held in his hand a six-inch scale-figure of a chiselled muscle man, clad in an eye-catching blue uniform with a red sash. He sported a matching red gun, a determined stare and the bold emblem of ‘International Rescue’ across his front.

He slowly turned it so that she could see it from every angle, and hid a smile. He knew he was incensing her.

“Well, really Jeff, despite my many and varied skills I am not a psychic. I don’t see how I could possibly have found out about this escapade. Workers obliged to sign contracts of silence, no whisper of a planned publicity campaign, and absolutely no leak of any news even remotely pertaining to International Rescue from this decidedly obscure avenue. You know as well as I do that the secrecy surrounding this particular range of toys was hitherto unheard of.”

“I know that as well as you do,” countered Jeff, “because it was on the news. Everybody knows it as well as we do, and that’s really to missing the point of having your very own secret agent.”

“Jeff, don’t be ridiculous. You might remember I’ve have had rather a lot on my plate this last month.”

“Excuses?” Jeff smiled airily. He was enjoying this rare chance to penetrate Penelope’s usually unflappable cool.

“Excuses?” She repeated, ever so slightly more tensely. “Excuses. Finally tracking and disposing of those agents hiding in Manchester. Discovering the attempted photograph plot in Wales following the Cardiff rescue. Five reconnaissance missions, three research trips, two formal barbeques and not that you care, but you might recall that I have endured the most recent of these whilst falling spectacularly ill with the flu…”

“I don’t doubt it, Penny,” Jeff interrupted, smiling winningly. “Everything you do, you do spectacularly.”

Penelope raised a handkerchief to her nose, closing her eyes for effect. “This hilarious Spanish Inquisition routine is falling on somewhat deaf ears, Jeff.”

“There, there, Penny, calm down. Now that we’ve established that this was all your fault I just wanted to clarify how many of these gorgeous little guys you want to pre-order,” said Jeff reasonably. Their eyes locked and she glared into his faux-sincere expression for so long that he felt he had to break the silence. So triggered the Talk button on the back of the toy.

“Don’t you understand?” the little man entreated her, his voice impressive and heroic. “We’re running out of time! ”

Penelope had seemingly had enough.

“I’m going to get some rest,” she said coldly. “If you need anything, Boss, you’ve got over a hundred other agents; take it up with one of them.” And with a brief look of the most superb distain, she was gone.

Jeff sighed, grinning. He had enjoyed that.

“Of all the people in the world to metaphorically poke at with a stick, I’m not sure I’d be brave enough to choose Penny.”

Jeff turned to the source of the voice. It was Virgil, who’d apparently been out on the balcony. He grinned at his son, unrepentant.

“Oh, she’s just jealous. I’ll send her an Official International Rescue Action Figure of her very own, which as every man knows is the direct way to a woman’s heart, and she’ll forgive me.” Jeff adjusted the arms of the toy, placing the gun in his hand and making the head look warily from side to side. He’d forgotten how much fun action figures were. “This guy’s called Leo, by the way. It’s a way cooler name than I gave any of you original International Rescuers,” he sighed dramatically, “but your mother would insist on interfering.”

Virgil grinned, sitting down on a chair nearby and picking up a newspaper. “Do I take it by these sprightly boyish antics that you’ve decided that these toys aren’t any cause for alarm?”

Jeff laughed a little, adjusting Leo’s aim. “Well, what have they done that affects us? Copied our uniform, maybe; and even then not very accurately. It’s certainly not any security risk I’m familiar with. And hey –” he added, pressing Leo’s speech button again.

“Please, no payment. We’re just here to help,” intoned Leo impressively.

“ – maybe it’ll be a good role-model for kids.”

“Yeah, and that toy company are going to be making some serious money off of the whole package, I’m sure,” murmured Virgil from behind the newspaper.

“Well, what do we do? Sue for rights to our name? It’s not like we ever copyrighted the thing, so legally we don’t have a hypothetical leg to stand on anyway, even supposing we could or would press charges.”

Virgil hummed distractedly, apparently still uneasy about something. And indeed he lowered the paper only a moment later.

“You just figure they wouldn’t franchise such a pure idea so shamelessly,” he rattled. “Why can’t they donate the proceeds to charity, or something? Maybe to the upkeep of conventional rescue equipment?”

Jeff smiled, sitting Leo on the table in front of him. “Because business doesn’t work that way,” he said. “I for one would love to see it made worth their while financially to promote good role-models, because that’s how change becomes permanent.”

He stood and stretched, eyes far off as he drifted into thoughtful silence. Virgil, resuming his place behind the paper, shot his father a suspicious glance as he left.

“Where are you going?”

“To send Penelope some flowers.”

Early the following morning, Penelope was taking tea in her bedroom, still recovering from the flu. She sat, wrapped in her pink silk robe, in an antique wingback chair, watching the dawn mist slowly disperse as the sun grew stronger. She sighed and stretched her feet out to her footstool, calm and composed. And thoughtful.

Something wasn’t right.

She swilled her tea dregs slowly in the bottom of her china cup, trying to put her finger on what it was about the whole toy franchise episode that she didn’t like. Had she any reason to be suspicious? Jeff clearly wasn’t worried, if he were able to tease her so mercilessly about finally being unable to catch an incident before it occurred, however impossible it would have been for her to find out about such a thing.

Well. Personal pride aside, Jeff worried about security more than anyone on the whole team. If he wasn’t concerned, there wasn’t a problem.

And yet…

A refreshing breeze blew through her room, bringing to her the sweet scent of the flowers that had arrived by courier as her household was closing for the night. Lilies, sent by Jeff in the mistaken presumption that it would make the slightest difference to the amount he would have to grovel for her forgiveness when next they met. Foolish man.

Though they were beautiful. Her favourite, actually. And they had been very prompt.

She poured herself another cup of tea, ruminating on what information she had gained from Scott via videophone before she retired for the night. He detailed concisely everything he knew about the danger zone, the factory and the products they had discovered. And then he smiled in a way that reminded her strongly of his father, and planted the seed of doubt in her mind.

“You don’t have to do this, Penny; Dad was only kidding around. Don’t go looking for trouble just to prove a point.”

She frowned as she blew her nose. Was she being ridiculous? Trying in some way to reassert her role professionally after it was questioned, however jokingly? She had exasperatedly assured Scott that nothing of that kind was going on, and, when questioned about what she intended to do with the information he had just imparted, she told him that to pose such questions he would require top security clearance that she wasn’t convinced he had and unceremoniously hung up on him. Oh dear.

She was being ridiculous. The police had written the fire off as accidental, Jeff seemed delighted that his team had been immortalised in plastic, and everyone agreed it was all a good joke. She should be finding this funny. She groaned, reaching for her flu remedy tablets. She was obviously just ill.

And yet…

Three hours later she was dosed up to her eyeballs, clad in Channel and stepping gracefully out of the Rolls outside the impressive Anderson Toys Headquarters, New York. With an unperceivable nod to Parker as he closed her door behind her, she took off up the marble stairs and pushed her way demurely through the bright glass doors. It was pleasantly cool in the foyer, and she removed her sun glasses as she strolled over to the receptionist.

“Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward of the Universal Mirror. I have an appointment with Mr Nicolas Winterton.”

Nicolas Winterton’s office was a Shangri La of mahogany. He sat behind a desk so large he seemed almost out of scale with it, and beckoned Penelope in cheerily as he rose to stand and concluded a phone call.

“No, next week at the absolute latest. Hey, would I lie to you?” he chuckled. “Okay… okay… next week then… Okay, bye! ”

He hung up the phone swiftly and walked out to greet Penelope.

“Lady Creighton-Ward, I’m so sorry about that,” he said breathlessly, shaking her hand with one of his and sweeping his brown hair back with the other. “I would never have believed that a couple of crates of toys would cause such a media frenzy.” He brimmed with excitable energy as he invited Penelope to take a seat. Clearly the phone call had been lucrative.

“I beg to disagree, dear Mr Winterton,” she smiled coyly, “I’m sure you knew what must happen if all your working staff were sworn to secrecy and no publicity was planned. It sounds to me like either a foolish risk or a work of genius.”

He laughed expansively and perched on the edge of his desk, folding his arms. “Ah, Lady Creighton-Ward, you’ve heard all that banana oil as well? Surely you should know not to believe everything you read in the papers?”

“I certainly do; I’m a reporter,” she grinned wickedly. “And please, call me Penelope.”

“Penelope it is. And I’m Nicolas,” he smiled. “Well, what is it that I can do for you, Penelope?”

“Well, I was hoping to get a few words with you about the range of already infamous International Rescue toys that you have been overseeing. And please, let me take a moment to thank you for agreeing to see me so soon after everything became public.” She sighed slightly. “I’m sure you must have much more important things to do than deal with hapless journalists, and more prestigious publications to grace than the Universal Mirror.”

Nicolas shook his head. “Are you kidding me? Unlike the other vultures, you held off till the afternoon. You’re clearly a saint.”

“One does what one can,” said Penelope amiably, taking out a paper pad and pen from her pocket. “Now then, Mr Nicolas Winterton,” she logged his name in her pad, “could you please tell me your role here at Anderson?”

“Managing Director,” he said, with no little satisfaction.

“And how long have you occupied that position?”

“Not all that long, actually, Penelope,” she smiled airily.

“Really?” She leaned forward as if with great interest, eyes full of curiosity and neckline of blouse falling lower – purely by accident, of course. Nicolas grinned, eyes flickering momentarily, and then leaned forward mock-conspiratorially.

“In fact, this International Rescue line was my first management assignment.”

“Really?” she repeated, smiling. “Well, what a smashing start you’ve made, Nicolas. You and your toys are all anyone can talk about. Obviously their appearing suddenly out of nowhere has started this media tempest; was that part of your promotion plan?”

“Actually, yes,” said Nicolas, hopping down from his desk and strolling over to his whiskey decanter on a table beside Penelope’s chair. “I had this idea that what was good for the real International Rescue would be good enough for our little line. I mean, they came from nowhere, didn’t they? They were their own publicity, and very successful too. Whiskey?”

“I really shouldn’t,” Penelope smiled up through her lashes at him. “At this time in the afternoon? It can make a girl quite careless.”

Nicolas raised an eyebrow, poured a measure into a second glass and offered it to her, smiling.

“Well,” Penelope laughed, as if caught off-guard, “I suppose it would be ungracious not to join one’s host in a toast.”

He raised his glass, eyes never leaving hers, and she mimicked him. Then he moved round to sit beside her on the small couch.

“So, you masterminded a hitherto unknown method of promotion, which involved not promoting the item at all?”

“That’s right,” he replied huskily. “And I don’t mind telling you, I went up against some pretty stiff competition. Most of the Board thought I was crazy. Not worthy of my promotion.”

“Right.” Penelope sighed, and closed her body language up a little, focussing on her paper pad. “It’s such a shame that it didn’t work.”

“What didn’t work?” exclaimed Nicolas, surprised. “You said it yourself; they’re the talk of the town.”

“Yes, but the fire destroyed so much of your stock. You surely won’t be able to ship it to all the shops you would wish to and so naturally your margin will suffer dramatically.”

Nicolas seemed slightly taken aback. Then he was looking at her closely, something clearly on the tip of his tongue. Penelope worked the silence; losing his eye contact to glance down into her drink, re-crossing her legs, then looking up again at him expectantly.

He slid a little closer. “Well, don’t write this in your little book,” he smiled, removing her notepad from her lap. “It’s kinda naughty.” She flashed him a timid smile, waiting for him to continue. “Well, you’re exactly right. Our margins would suffer if we went out with such a reduced stock. But with the extreme secrecy we were exercising there comes the happy by-product that none of the stores know what we were going to originally charge for the product.” He sipped on his whiskey, smiling wickedly down at her. “So, we just rate a little more for a little less, and everybody’s happy.”

“Yes,” smiled Penelope admiringly, “I’m sure the stores wouldn’t mind paying – and thus charging – over the odds, because of all the publicity: the Thunderbirds flying in to rescue their own toy replicas from disaster.”

“That’s right,” said Nicolas, indulgently.

“Plus I suppose that the fire didn’t so much destroy your stock as to create a limited edition line,” Penelope chatted on. “The stores would pay even more since there weren’t as many to go around.”

“Right again,” her companion grinned, winking. Penelope smiled and stood, walking over to his desk and running a finger idly along the surface.

“Well, I suppose all there is to do now is to clarify how exactly you started the fire.”

The silence that followed her words was abrupt. Nicolas was suddenly sitting dangerously still. After a few extremely telling moments, he recovered himself.

“Penelope? I’m… I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. This talk of the fire. The police decided the fire was an accident.”

“Yes I know,” replied Penelope, blithely. “That leads me to believe that it was some sort of remote controlled explosive device. Very subtly placed and powered, too, if you were going to ensure International Rescue was called, but equally that not too much stock was destroyed.” She pushed herself up to sit on his desk. “And no lives lost either. That would be bad for the brand.”

Nicolas was staring at her, blanched white. He stood up suddenly, and made towards her, his demeanour transformed; suddenly predatory, dangerous.

“You shouldn’t go reeling off theories you can’t prove,” he murmured.

“Don’t feel too bad,” said Penelope coolly. “I’m sure I know lots of people who’d endanger the lives of over a hundred factory workers to ensure their promotion stuck and they sold a lot of dolls. I mean, just because I can’t think of any at the moment, that doesn’t mean that –”

Her words were cut short with a crash. Nicolas had thrown his whiskey tumbler at the wall.

“You bitch,” he growled, pushing his face within a few inches of hers. “I tell you, you’ll keep your thoughts to yourself from now on, if you don’t want more trouble than you can handle.”

For answer, Penelope plunged her hand into the front of her blouse, and slowly pulled out a small microphone device.

“The recording is out in my car, Nicolas, so nothing you do to me here will change what it has captured.” Her eyes locked with his, He would be too close to duck if he went to hit her; she’d have to just recover quickly.

But then all at once, she saw the fury behind his glare die. He looked lost; pitiful. At least he wasn’t a pro.

“What do you want?” he whispered.

“Turn yourself in, and no one will ever hear this tape,” she replied.

The surprising thing about the whole episode was that he did. As soon as they left his office. Clearly the guilty conscience within told him that the evidence of the recording wouldn’t be worth fighting. Penelope had only to insist on one proviso before she left his office and company forever.

“Don’t mention my input in the proceedings,” she said. “I don’t want the publicity.”

He smirked bitterly. “Everyone wants the publicity. Come on. You, a society dame and part-time writer figure out what fooled the police and International Rescue, and you don’t want me to tell them you were instrumental in my sudden change of heart?”

Penelope smiled, picking up an International Rescue doll lying on his desk and pressing the Talk button.

“Please, no payment. We’re just here to help,” announced the hero.

“Perhaps they’re just becoming a good influence on me,” she smiled.

And she kept on smiling throughout the Fireflash ride home. She loved being right.

At about eight o’clock that evening, as she was taking her last flu remedy and thinking about retiring for an early night the doorbell rang. Confused, she waited for Parker to show in her late-calling and possibly rude visitors. Moments later, he trooped in followed by Tin-Tin, Scott, Virgil, Gordon and Alan. Jeff sauntered in last, came right into the room, and sat on the couch opposite her chair.

He knew she was ill. Definitely rude.

“What did you do?” he asked her, his eyes sparkling.

“Well, really, Jeff,” she countered, “you walk into my house, without invitation or appointment, late one night when you’re supposed to be on the other side of the world and then proceed to interrogate me?” She crossed a leg. “I’m afraid this will not do.”

Jeff threw back his head and laughed. So she spared him a favourable glance. But only a brief one.

“Penny, it’s all over the news. Some Managing Director at the International Rescue toy line turned himself in over starting the Long Island factory fire for publicity.” He leaned forward eagerly. “I ask again, what did you do?”

“Nothing your usual below-par excuse for an agent couldn’t handle,” she retorted.

Jeff chucked, and Tin-Tin hastened over to kneel by Penelope’s side.

“I’ve been telling them for weeks they should make more of a fuss of you,” said Tin-Tin, moving to hold her hand. “I mean, what girl would recover from the flu with any great speed without a little flattering attention?”

Penelope’s suspicions were alerted at once, and were indeed confirmed when Jeff stood and walked over to her, arm outstretched invitingly.

“We’ve given ourselves the night off. The boys have got a surprise for you, to cheer you up and say thank you. Come on, Parker’s set it up, through in the ball room.”

Penelope found herself being escorted through her own house, and threw alarmed glances all about her.

“I would like to state,” said Virgil almost at once, “that this wasn’t my idea.”

“Don’t listen to him,” enthused Gordon, seizing her arm. “You’re gonna love this. And Tin-Tin will too, I’m sure.”

“You see,” continued Alan, appearing behind her, “it turns out the International Rescue logo is being usurped everywhere. This line of action figures wasn’t the first.”

“Really?” said Penelope, now thoroughly on edge as they entered the ball room. Anything that Gordon and Alan though was this winning would surely not end well for her.

“Trust us,” grinned Gordon, leading her to a collection of chairs in the middle of the room. He seated her in the frontmost of these, and made sure everyone else was sitting comfortably behind her, before taking out his digital camera and shouting “Hit it!”

A spotlight struck out from the ceiling and danced around the floor before her to the opening chords of a song that sounded extremely familiar. A second too late everything slid into place, when Penelope recognised the song as a raucous disco number called “I Need a Hero”. Too late, because just as she realised this a man jumped into the spotlight. He was wearing a full International Rescue uniform when he began the dance, but in no time at all he’d discarded most of it, saving the hat to place on Penelope’s golden head before performing a whole routine without ever leaving the immediate area of her lap.

A stripper. They’d got her an International Rescue stripper.

As he went on to finish his dramatic choreography, Penelope had to laugh and clap along with the rest. Officially, she thought the whole thing was juvenile and would hardly be helping her to recover from her flu. Off the record, it was quite the most striking Get Well Soon present anyone had ever got her.

She turned her eyes to Jeff Tracy, seated off to her left. He was grinning, and winked at her in a way that seemed to say she’d earned it.

Charming.