A/N

Here we are with the second of the Poor John series so enjoy!

Warning: Blondism, Gingerphobia, incest hinting, cross-dressing and devil worshipping among other things (I just really put you off didn't I, bugger)

Dedicated to my Dad, who has almost as twisted a mind as me when it comes to ideas and often helps me, give it up for King David!

Brains slowly reached for the readouts from the machine which bleeped ominously at him. As he stared at the strange spikes and muttered something to the computer which verified them, he got a strange feeling in his stomach.

Apprehension.

Or was it fear?

Brains was never unsure about anything. He decided that he should probably do some analysis on his hormone levels, and drink some more carrot juice. Just before he left, he switched on a discreetly hidden camera to the deep inner sanctum of International Rescue.

He had a feeling this was something he'd want to see again.

Alan reached for the paper that had been handed to him and began to open it nonchalantly. The others made a large point about deliberately not looking, making that tiny little flutter of nerves amplify so that his heart began to pound slightly.

It's not easy being the youngest.

Their slightly-paranoid (come on, give the guy a break) father Jeff Tracy often made his sons take IQ tests just to make sure that the radiation from the crafts and danger zones wasn't affecting them. Usually it didn't, but raising five boys practically single-handed had always made him a touch worried about that sort of thing.

However, Alan wasn't worried about his results. Having an IQ just above average and a firm belief it wasn't going to happen to him helped, but after reading it all he could do was gape.

"What? What is it?" finally interrupted Gordon after waiting for five minutes of watching his little brother pull a silly face at the paper. After no reply was given Scott snatched the paper away.

"94…Alan you-you BLONDE!"

There was a very heavily pregnant pause, soon giving birth to lots of little, equally embarrassing pauses.

"What does that have to do with anything?" asked a much confused Virgil.

"Well you know how blondes are supposed to be stupid?" Gordon finally caught on;

"BLONDE! BLONDE! BLONDE!" Alan slowly turned to him with a crazed look in his eyes.

"Ginger…" He hissed. Gordon stopped mid flow to gape at him.

"It's bronze, bronze I say!" was his furious denial. Poor Ginger – I mean Gordon – had now almost been reduced to tears.

"Ginger!" was the only response he got, all his brothers turned on him, disgust in their eyes. After all, having a ginger in the family was at least ten times worse than simply having two blonde brothers.

"Well…at least I don't CROSS DRESS!" He shrieked. Scott fell to his knees.

"It was only a phase!" he cried.

"So why do you still have mum's high heels in the bottom of your wardrobe?" Virgil screamed at this, pointing at his role model in horror.

"You monster! How can you still be doing that? You promised me you'd stop!" The poor boy was quite disillusioned, as you can expect.

"I have! Only on Purim! Besides, John's way more sexually messed up that me!" he garbled, passing the blame. All of them stopped to think for a while, except Alan.

"Hmm…that is true…" They all nodded in agreement, except Alan who looked round, confused.

"What? What about John?" He asked.

Gordon cleared his throat quietly, the word blonde shining through his evidently fake coughing fit.

"Shut up!" Poor Alan was now incredibly confused.

"Well Al, you were too young to remember… I suppose it's for the best," came Scott's reply.

"All those times he canoodled up to you, and you too young and innocent to notice." Virgil said this rather quickly and quietly, but every word rang true.

"Wait, what!?" The poor young boy's eyes were now incredibly round and panicky. An observer might have quietly tapped them on the shoulder and pointed out his current predicament, but unfortunately no one was present, and so the boys continued.

"Uh huh, that's right."

They watched him leave as he ran from the room sobbing, his lasts words ringing around the small chamber;

"How could you do this to me? Jooohn!"

His hysterical sobs would haunt the Tracy family for some time… and would soon light regret into their hearts. Especially John.

But that's another story.

Meanwhile in space, John had just finished his latest symposium; he had recently become a musical genius - not that any of his family had bothered to ask - and was completely ignorant to the accusations being bandied about Tracy Island or the repercussions of them.

Jeff Tracy had just stepped out of his office only to be almost run down by his youngest son, who had been making for his room crying more than he had since he was five. Hearing shouting he decided to pursue the matter with his other sons.

"What is going on?" he asked, perfectly reasonably.

"Virgil worships the Devil!" Jeff very slowly turned to the aforementioned, who couldn't quite meet his father's gaze and muttered something like "at least I'm not a transvestite in my dead mum's clothes" under his breath, and for some reason Jeff really didn't want to know.

Brains, who had been standing at the side of the room since he had given Alan the results, made a tick on his clipboard.

The crucible theory really did work.

A/N

Just to let you know there will be an epilogue to this story, and also the crucible theory is that under the right conditions hysteria can grow and thrive with ridiculous effects, like the Salem witch trials.

This story was beta'd by Mrs Alichay Sohma, so thank her for the lack of grammar problems.

Alichay: I cannot believe you couldn't even spell grammar properly. –shakes head in disgust- And really this was a joint collaboration, but sometimes my princess needs some help –curtsies-

One day I'll write a sensible Thunderbirds FanFic…one day…