Faustian Hopscotch Chap 5
Title:Faustian Hopscotch
Author:Calamityjim
Fandoms:Supernatura/SGA
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Supernatural-Spoilers to season 5, SG-1, to season 9, and SGA, all seasons. Also Violence, swearing, pairings, sexual content, and aliens
Disclaimer:Stargate belongs to MGM, Supernatural to the CW
Distribution: Crossposted on fanfic.net
Previous
Disclaimer: Not Mine
Faustian Hopscotch
Chapter 5
Burn This Building Down
Chuck was a technician. While that was a career choice that required a certain set of skills that only came with time and higher education, were anyone who knew the man asked to describe his job they'd tell start and stop with him being the guy who reset your technological doodad to make it work again. Even the people at the SGC, a place where everyone knew that a geek was worth his weight in weapons grade naquadah, described him as the reset guy. Never mind that he maintained the hardware and software of one of the most secret and secure places in the US. Never mind that he developed patches and bypasses and designed software upgrades for technology that had never been seen before on Earth. Never mind he worked with equipment most people believed existed only in the realm of science fiction. Nope, he was the guy who reset things.
Guns didn't have a reset function. They also didn't require software patches. They couldn't be rewired to increase efficiency and they didn't get viruses uploaded into their databases. So why Chuck was holding one was beyond him.
Certainly, he understood the theory, but he better understood that the theoretical and the practical were fields apart. Outlining a theory where he listened to the marine barking out orders and walked away a marksman was like trying to calculate acceleration while ignoring friction. Sure, there was some pretty math involved but it just didn't translate off the page.
This was why Chuck was content to glare at the piece of paper a few hundred yards off instead of trying to inflict damage upon it; trying being the operative word. He was more of a Yoda fan anyway. He preferred the 'do not' to 'try'.
So far, he was managing his glaring quite well. He'd been sorted into the group with the least experience with firearms, which left him as one of a few dozen wedged into the stalls of the makeshift firing range. Apparently not firing at all let Chuck fly beneath the frustrated instructor's radar. The incoherent screams of rage that punctuated the air only validated that not firing was definitely better than trying and doing it wrong.
"Hey." Chuck glanced back, surprised to find Sam Winchester watching him intently. Until that moment, Chuck had been certain that he didn't register anywhere on Sam's radar. Not that Sam had anything against the technician, or geeks in general. It was just that as far as Chuck could tell, no one who wasn't Dean or Ronon or directly speaking to Sam really made an impression. Both of the Winchesters were like that. They were aloof enough that everybody on the base 'knew' a bit about them, because nobody knew them at all.
There were all sorts of theories floating about as to why they were like that and why they were on Atlantis, and a revised batch had come out after Dean made sport of a couple of marines. The pair had gone from possible International Oversight Advisory agents, seeking to tidy up Atlantis, to possible Asgard bio-experiments who were going to be an ace in the hole next time the Wraith decided to attack. Or they were cloned variations of O'Neill's dead son. Or a Jaffa prince and bodyguard sent to absorb Earth culture without risking exposure. Or aliens who had been hiding on Earth. Or advanced AIs. Or or or. The theories went on and on, each becoming a little more inane than the last. If they really had been robots the Colonel wouldn't have been able to gut one of them, and enough of Sam's insides had been left in the hallway to know that they weren't made of wire. Still, no matter what the truth, it was really peculiar that Sam was speaking to him.
"Are you jammed? You haven't fired a shot."
Chuck offered a shrug and more than willingly handed his weapon into Sam's proffered hand. He watched, baffled but curious, as Sam poked, prodded, shook and smacked the gun. When Sam finished mauling the P90 he looked up with a small but knowing grin. For it's size it was amazing how much concern and sympathy he had packed into the expression. "It's not jammed."
Chuck took the safest route and gave Sam another shrug.
"Are you right handed or left?"
"Right?" Chuck ventured, not sure where this was going.
Sam nodded, more to himself than to Chuck, and offered the P90 back. Chuck grasped it gingerly, not overly thrilled to have had it handed back to him. His displeasure flowed into alarm when Sam didn't fully let go. Instead he guided the weapon to Chuck's shoulder while simultaneously circling, tacking Chuck to Sam with the gun.
"Excuse me, but what are you doing?"
"Teaching you to shoot," came the absent reply as the pressure against Chuck's shoulder was adjusted.
"Why?" Chuck asked, nonplussed.
Sam continued to manipulate the gun against Chuck's shoulder. "You came and got me when Dean was being, well, Dean." Sam's tone was a mix of fondness and derision, which blew all the Dean's just a body guard theories, but definitely leant credibility to them being possible lovers. "This is the least I can do to help." Sam unfurled himself from Chuck, tutting as he scrutinized his work.
"Your footwork is all off," Sam murmured. "You need to square your feet off, and move your dominant foot a few inches behind the other." Sam grabbed Chuck's legs, hauling them into position. "This is called the athletic stance. You brace yourself better, reducing the impact of recoil, and you have a greater range of movement for targeting. It works way better than the Hollywood posturing that you were trying."
Chuck endured Sam's ministrations with a polite bewilderment, listening as best he could to Sam's running commentary as the other positioned him like some kind of GI-Joe. Chuck held the pose as best he could, his body grumbling at the unfamiliarity of the stance as Sam finally finished his tweaking. "Do you know how to aim?"
Instead of bleeding exasperation at yet another of Chuck's blank shrugs, Sam moved closer to the barrel, pointing out the sights on either side. "The P90 is fully ambidextrous," Sam explained, " and is the first of its kind to be so. Now, you line up your sights," Sam wiggled the gun again, "and keep both eyes open. There is no point in aiming your gun if you're only going to do half the job." Sam's explanation sounded rote, as though it was something he'd been told a hundred times. "When you're ready to fire twist this here. It's your safety. You won't be able to shoot when it's here, but give it a twist," Chuck complied, "and now you're on semi-auto. If you twist it again you're on full auto, which is a great way to waste ammo. Ready? Just give the trigger a gently squeeze."
Chuck did and the world exploded. The P90 heaved a scream as it slammed back, pounding into Chuck's shoulder. It's cry echoed in his fingertips, leaving them buzzing as the gun faded to silence. His own shout of surprise was swallowed by nerves and adrenaline as they tangled, dancing across his skin like fire. He lowered the weapon and let out a shaky breath.
"Good job," Sam said in the same tone as elementary school teachers everywhere. "Now this time relax your grip and let out a breath before you fire."
x-x-x-x-x-x-
Information flowed like a river, rising and rushing with rainfall, swirling into unexpected nicks in the bank, eddying until it was ready to surge forward. It pushed and carved, gently smoothing away the rough edges until everything fit with the precision of puzzle pieces. It brought nutrients to those who lived near its edge, sustaining life and encouraging growth, letting the world flourish into richness. It was information that made everything possible, that made everything work together.
That John had none was pissing him off. Seriously, he was the goddamn commander of the entire fucking military contingent on Atlantis and no one was telling him a goddamn thing. He had tried to come to grips with the fact that his military had been picking on civilians, and not the pulling pigtails grade school crap but of the full-blown high school wedgies and swirlies variety, but he had given up on rationalizing when he realized that he was dealing with the tip of one hell of an iceberg. There was simply no way that Elizabeth didn't know that Dean could take care of himself and anyone that crossed his path, yet she hadn't told John. She hadn't told him anything about the Winchesters and that was more than a simple fucking oversight. That was tactical shit that John needed to know and he needed to know why everyone was trying so hard to keep it a secret. Trying and failing fucking miserably. John wasn't an idiot and everyone was dropping baskets of breadcrumbs. Take, for instance, the fact that Dean had managed to ambush Teyla in a forest.
Teyla. In a forest.
That was like sneaking up behind the goddamn Batman in an alleyway. It just wasn't fucking done.
It hadn't been a clean victory, with Ronon stunning Dean (and what the hell was up with that?) but it was closer than any of the marines fresh of the Daedalus had ever gotten. John had personally re-sorted Dean into more advanced fire arms class, grimly curious as to how Dean would cope with the stricter standards required for a pass. Dean had risen to the challenge, passing with a comfortable buffer despite the fact that the records of Atlantis's firing range indicated Dean couldn't hit the target if he threw the bullets. Apparently his ability was directly related to the number of marines taking bets.
And now Sam, who had barely scraped by in his own fire arms training, had Chuck Campbell, if not raking in the bull's-eyes, then at least firing well enough to stay alive in an actual combat scenario. And just to ice the proverbial cake, despite Sam's struggles with the P90, both he and Dean had managed a perfect head shot and a wince-worthy one to the groin that, without the fucking mountain of evidence John had of there being something up, would have been considered a fluke.
Something was going on and John was going to get to the bottom if he had to dig there himself.
Frustrated and disturbed, John slipped away from where he had stood to watch the firing range. The camp was mix of activity as various groups trained and tested and, despite the seriousness of the training, the air seemed quite jovial. John marched on, feeling like a tornado in a Disney movie as he tromped a direct path, blowing past the unwary. He followed the sharp clack of sticks that nicked the air to a crowd of hooting marines. The crowd parted for John, especially after he threw a few elbows. He watched at the front, a frown engraved on his face.
"Teyla!" He snapped. The Athosian turned, acknowledging John's impatience with an eyebrow. The marine, obviously new, decided to press his advantage, moving in for the kill while Teyla was distracted. Two swings and he was eating dirt. John sheared back through the crowd, which this time parted for him like water before a shark. He didn't bother to check back to see if Teyla was following him. He knew she would be.
His second stop took him to Ronon, who was demonstrating the finer points of hand-to-hand for some of the keener civilians. At the wave of John's chin he passed off the activity to Corporal Croswell, following John as he picked his way towards the edge of camp. Finding a spot that was shielded from intruders and the weird happy vibes, John indulged by leaning up against the trunk of one of the trees acting as a barrier between him and the insanity of his troops. He crossed his arms lightly, his thumbs hanging out to twiddle as he kicked a heel and dug it deep into the wood. "What do you guys know about the Winchesters?"
"Very little," Teyla pursed her lips in thought. "They are quite clever and both are more capable then they would have you believe." Her words were soft and deliberate, a sign that she had not settled her own opinion on the matter.
John nodded, perturbed. Teyla had a gift, and it wasn't her whole ability to sense Wraith. She seemed to know people the way Rodney knew science. It was somewhere deep in her bones that let her see things others didn't. It had saved their Asses on many occasions. The fact that she had no more information than John was unnerving, to say the least.
He glanced at Ronon, knowing he had been spending time with the two.
"Sam likes steckleberry muffins."
"Really?" John drawled, stuffing as much sarcasm into the word as he could manage, which happened to be a lot considering its length. Besides being utterly unhelpful, Ronon's contribution was painfully obvious. Those muffins were disturbingly delicious. He was fairly certain Rodney had someone working on cloning steckleberries because the suppliers were stingy. "Anything else?" Perhaps something relevant.
"No." The word had the force of a mudslide.
John could feel the muscles in his shoulders tighten into cords, ligament by ligament. "Right." He reminded himself that he could trust Ronon, that Ronon would follow him through hell. He huffed out a breath. "Fine." It was fine. "I want eyes and ear on them at all times. Teyla, you cover Sam-"
"I'm with Sam."
Something shattered in the ensuing silence, but John was the only one who could hear it. "Excuse me?" John pulled out his best Colonel voice, trying to pin Ronon with a look.
He could have been pissing in the wind for all the affect it had. "I'm with Sam," Ronon said as though it were written in stone.
"Alright." John gave Ronon a smile full of teeth. "You're with Sam. Now that we've settled that, why don't you go back to playing with the marines?" John's tone was saccharine and mocking and they both knew it.
Ronon held John's gaze, and when he looked away it wasn't because he couldn't match John. He turned like a lion that was bored with its prey and strode off with a casual deliberation.
"Teyla." She was also watching Ronon's departure with a thoughtful little frown that was all soft edges. "Cover Dean. And get me Cadman, will you?"
John was going to figure out what the hell was going on and not even Ronon was going to stand in his fucking way.
x-x-x-x-x-
People tended to talk about Dean Winchester. And why not? He had a face that even angels wanted to wear, with eyes so green that envy was applying to have a color change. His body was a temple that had been hand sculpted by only the most talented artisans and was maintained daily by adulating worshippers. He had perfected and patented the term Big Brother©. He was a topnotch mechanic that could make even the most enervated of wrecks purr with new life and he was an even better driver. He was a bit of a rascal, though those less enamored with his charm tended to toss around terms like troublemaker or, from those who actively disliked him, a deviant. He was a man-slut who couldn't hold a steady relationship for more than a few hours, an uneducated hick who was on a fast track to nowhere.
Most people Dean met didn't peg him as being the quickest on the uptake. Even Sam, who knew Dean as well as anyone could, occasionally suspected his brother wasn't playing with a full deck. That was fine. Dean was keeping the aces up his sleeve.
It was easy to play the part of the idiot. People tended to treat him like one. They flashed watery smiles that didn't reach their eyes, used little words that they pronounced slowly, and forgot he was in the room when they turned to discuss more serious matters in hefty voices and extensive vocabulary. All Dean had to do was be there and keep a big, dumb smile on his face.
At least, that was how it was supposed to work.
"Sheppard wants to know what's going on." Ronon stood shoulder to shoulder with Dean, watching as an afternoon storm rained out the activities. Some of the keeners were still working on practice, tossing each other in the mud with the enthusiasm of kids at recess. Mostly everyone had retreated to their tents. A few seeking solitude had done as Dean and Ronon, pulling up a tree to hide under as they watched rain.
"That's nice," Dean grumbled. The fact that he'd been switched to the marine's training schedule had been a tip off, with the passing grades no longer being something Dean could trip over. It was why as much of his energies right now were devoted to keeping an eye on Sam as he stood across the clearing. He'd seemed to have made friends with a geek and the pair could be seen talking enthusiastically under a clump of trees, each taking turns to watch the other with wide-eyed wonder as they hid from the rain. Dean had a suspicion that despite how interested they looked, whatever they were talking about was lethally boring. Geeks were like that.
"I want to know what's going on." There was something hard in Ronon's tone that caused Dean to glance at the big alien out of the corner of his eye.
Dean jutted his chin defensively. "And I want to know why the hell you keep stunning me. Looks like we're both out of luck, Rapunzel."
"Promised McKay I'd threaten you. I'm making it look good." Ronon gave Dean a sideways look. "What did you do to piss him off?"
"Nothing. Christ." Dean kicked at the ground. The responding squelch was unsatisfactory. "And why the hell did you promise him that?"
Ronon gave a half-hearted shrug. "Was going to do it anyway. Plus, he gave me stuff."
"This is about those marines, isn't it?" Dean sighed. Every inch of Ronon's body was waiting for a reasonable explanation. "Look, it got out of hand." Rained continued to shoot down, splashing high enough that walking through it was bound to get your knees wet. The storm looked like it was going to last a few more hours, at least. "He threatened Sam, okay?"
Ronon's silence lightened a few shades. "Think he meant it?" Dean shrugged. When had that ever mattered?
Somewhere over the pitter of water hitting the leaves, several birds were calling. The cacophonic cries jangled through the rhythm of the rain, like a bell shattering the morning. The noise seemed to hang in the air, like the question Ronon wasn't going to ask. Why are you both here?
Dean gathered his courage, pulling it close the way a child piled on blankets. He took a deep breath, stepping off the ledge into uncharted territory, and decided to trust someone because he wanted to, not because he had to. "You know about Sam." His brother was laughing across the clearing, a smile teasing across his new geek friend's face. "You're not the only one. This group found out. Came after him." Dean rubbed at the back of his neck, the skin slick with moisture. "I hid him, best I could, but the simple fact is that I couldn't protect him there. They were good and it was only going to take one slip up and I would have lost him." Dean swallowed, trying to push back the memory of Sam with Meg's black eyes, and the weight of a corpse in a ghost town.
"Johnny-General O'Neill," Dean corrected, "he sent us here to keep Sam safe. We're trying to lie low. The longer it takes them to realize we are, the longer Sam'll have a chance." Sam gave his new friend a pat on the back and for a moment the guy looked like the kid had bad touched him. "I'm just not good at this." Not good at hiding, at waiting, at not being the one leading the charge. Stillness was not the Winchester way.
Ronon gave a soft grunt. "Sheppard's not gonna stop til he knows."
"You gonna tell him?" Ronon's fingers twitched and Dean was pretty sure the alien was fighting the urge to stun him. He was hoping it was the urge to stun him. "Right." Dean drawled, shivering as droplets slid from the leaves and with bomber precision slipped down his neck.
"He's having you watched."
"Well, I am incredibly sexy." As was his stalker. He'd tagged Teyla as being a tail when she had started being the fifth player on every four-man team Dean was sorted into. See? The whole being dumb thing still worked a little in his favor.
"I'm watching Sam," Ronon proclaimed.
Dean gave a half-smile. "Yeah?" Ronon didn't bother to nod. They continued to watch Sam together in silence.
Fuck, the situation was ridiculous. There was just too much going on. Dean wanted off of this rock, out of this forest, and back in the halls of Atlantis. Hell, he might have even wanted back on Earth. Sure, the NID had been nipping at their heels, but Sam had already basically died and come back on their first week on Atlantis. Now they were out here on some stupid ball of dirt with too many trees and too many eyes peeking out from between them. At the city he and Sam could avoid everyone. Atlantis would whisper when people were coming, if Dean asked, and they could raid the cafeteria at nights and go hole up in some unexplored hallway. The city was the size of freaking New York. If he and Sam needed to stay disappeared they could.
There he could at least take Sam and hide out if shit went wrong. Here… Dean hated trees. They hid things. Big, hungry things. And they made you itchy.
And tomorrow he was going hiking.
Fun.
x-x-x-x-x-x
Marching through forests sucked.
For a lucky man it was mind numbingly redundant, passing along the same stretch of godforsaken land with the same people over and over again. Insects flew up or dropped down or just instantly manifested themselves into your reality with the sole intent of snacking on your sensitive bits. Animals watched you with all kinds of intent that Disney had failed to mention. Plants grabbed at you with the desperation of a beggar, vines curled around you feet like a lover, treacherously never letting go, and thorns would pierce even the thickest of protective gear. Everything was either diseased, poisonous, or infested.
And that was for the lucky man.
An unlucky one faced the additional challenges of local hospitality, which was often expressed through carefully crafted welcome mats of the sharp spike variety. It was amazing how little it took to incapacitate a man. Side-closing Panji traps were so simply even a child could make one. Put a few nails in a board, set it over a hole, and man would find himself in a whole world of hurt. Not as much as if he came across a spike board, mind you. One miss step and you'd have a face full of stakes. Of course, there was the razor wire strung about that glistened like a spider's web in the morning dew and tripwires that triggered almost anything. If you hit a trip wire you'd better pray, because your sorry ass was in God's hands.
Or course, being all hospitable-like meant that on occasion the natives would give their personal attention to the soldiers. It was no wonder they'd lost Vietnam. It was as though the entire forest had declared war, bullets coming from every angle as shadows slid into darker shadows, blood and foliage filling the air like confetti.
Lance Corporal Leroy Young drank in every second of it with the grace of a connoisseur. He recognized those moments as being perfect for demonstrating to the world why you did not fuck with Leroy Young and used every opportunity to it's fullest. He loved marching.
But damn, did he hate civilians.
He'd been warned, of course, about the silly civilian games that were played during marches, mostly because civilians had the attention span of three years olds and the physical endurance of Leroy's gran, which was saying something cause she'd been dead for a while now. He'd asked about and been told the best way to wiggle out of Prime-Not Prime, been given a few games to suggest that weren't entirely annoying and would keep the civilians focused on not bothering you.
However, no one had reckoned to give him advice on how to handle this situation in particulars.
Dr. Willy Greenburg was all pale with rage that trickled into his voice with the subtly of a whistle, making the same shrill sound. "Our current reports show that one of the many deficits of the cultures in Pegasus is their inability to provide modern medicine to their people! Providing them with vegetation that can be used as antiseptics would both demonstrate our peaceful nature while fostering trust between us and the people indigenous to this galaxy!" The man was so young that the ink on his degree couldn't have been wet. He wasn't particularly scrawny, but he gave off the feel of someone who was, struggling with his pack, even though the civilians weren't carrying half the gear the soldiers were. His brown hair was that movie start short, which meant just long enough that you could muss it to look like an idiot. The man was pale and bug-eyed, and his voice tended to wheedle. Leroy was also pretty sure he was the idiot who mentioned the bug incident in the gate room.
Dean Winchester, on the other hand, was the idiot who'd sworn loud enough that the whole contingent could have pointed him out. "Dude, they have plants here." An arm waved to indicate the forest. Dean seemed to be having no problem with his pack, except keeping it packed. From his spot in the rear Leroy could see how tightly crap had been crammed in there, with the sides bulging in odd spots. "You really think handing them a few more is going to be appreciated?" Dean continued to instigate, popping a few M&Ms into his mouth from a huge bag he had pulled seemingly out of nowhere. Not only had he refused to share, but he seemed to take delight in cracking the shells of the candy so loud that Leroy was pretty damn sure Atlantis could hear him.
"I'm not giving them plants," Dr. Greenburg shrieked. "I'm providing them with medical intervention."
"Made of plants. And isn't that like environmental assassination?"
"What?!" Leroy gritted his teeth, flicking a glance to the Colonel, who seemed strangely unaffected by the drama. He'd heard the Colonel was a tough bastard, but this was impressive. Leroy wished he'd quit being so damned impressive and get the civilians under goddamn control.
"You introduce a plant in the new environment and them bam, a year later all you got is this plant because it's killed everything else off. It's like you're trying to kill off the first aliens you meet." Dean cracked a few more M&Ms.
"You-" The biologist sputtered, his brain either at a complete loss or too full of insults to pick which one should come out of his mouth first.
Leroy wasn't sure which one of them he wanted to shoot more. Dean had been instigating like nobody's business, and only a complete idiot could have missed that fact. That being said, Dr Greenburg had walked into trap after trap. The march was supposed to take a total of five hours, led by the Colonel to evaluate physical endurance and the ability to endure alien environments or some such other hootenanny. They were nearly at two and the entire time Dr. Greenburg had been on the defensive, while Dean smugly munched on his goddamn M&Ms. He'd already berated the man for bringing chocolate (do you want to introduce diabetes into a pre-industrialized society?) gold (cause we're not still killing each other for it), and a museum of natural history (great, I'm sure knowing what violent bastards we are is a great way to start an alliance). Leroy's trigger finger was getting mighty twitchy.
"What would you offer, Dean Winchester?" Teyla asked. She gave Leroy the willies. She radiated the same sense of knowing that Leroy's ma had, as though she knew you hadn't washed behind your ears like you'd gone and said you'd had.
Dean offered the lady a smile that fit better in a bar than it did in the forest they were inching through. "You mean other than my fine self?" The doctor sputtered incoherently. "I'd bring a Chevy Impala."
Teyla's face smoothed into a frown, but Leroy felt his sprits lift a bit. "What year?"
Dean gave the Corporal a look so flat you could have served tea off of it. "Dude, 1967 or bust."
Leroy grunted, impressed despite himself. That right there was a fine machine.
"You'd bring a car? You'd bring a car to represent the value of Earth culture to aliens? A stupid car?" Dr. Frederick's voice was hollow with horror.
Dean crunched on a few more M&Ms. "No, I'd bring a Chevy Impala," he spoke in a tone of exaggerated patience. "It's a deft piece of engineering that will drive until the apocalypse if you maintain her right, and her stereo system is no slouch. She perfectly embodies our technological capabilities and has the added bonus of being able to play the most important music of our time. And," Dean added with care, "she won't cause an ecological crisis."
Dr. Greenburg seemed to be looking for a snotty reply, but Teyla flowed over him. "I have enjoyed my experiences with Earth vehicles. What would you bring, Corporal Young?"
Leroy snorted. He gave his P90 a tender rub. He was carrying all he'd ever need to meet an alien.
"I'd bring a Ferris wheel," the Colonel murmured almost absently. It was the first thing he'd added to the conversation, besides the tension that rolled off him like radiation.
Teyla gave a smile that was both knowing and nostalgic and Leroy took it as a cue to keep his mouth shut. "I thought your gift of choice was a football?"
The Colonel laughed lightly. "I already gave one of those to Rodney's kids."
"Dr. McKay has children?" Dr. Greenburg was the one to ask, but the air was thick with every one listening for the answer.
The Colonel gave an amused chuckle as he pushed past a low hanging branch. "He was adopted by the kids of M7G-677". The air slackened in relief. Some thoughts were just too horrifying. "He also did give them chocolate."
Leroy almost let out a groan. "You see?!" Whaled Dr. Greenburg. "McKay gave them chocolate! I told you it was a good idea."
The Colonel shrugged. "Maybe. To be fair, they were a planet full of kids."
Dr. Frederick seemed bound and determined to wine the "Most Fucking Annoying Civilian" Award and he was doing a shockingly good job considering his competition was still smacking on those goddamn M&Ms that he still wouldn't goddamn share. "How can a planet possibly be populated only by children?" His tone was a deadly mix of skepticism, patronization, and curiosity.
The Colonel froze mid-step, like a cat that had just noticed he had company. Leroy was sorta hoping he was gonna turn around and deck the scientist. Instead, the Colonel gave a smile aimed at the jugular. "Poor urban planning." His tone was too friendly to be trusted. "In fact," the Colonel said brightly, "when we get back to Atlantis you can go through the SGA-1 reports and discover the problem for yourself. Maybe you'll come up with a few helpful suggestions."
"But I'm a biologist!" Dr. Greenburg plowed on like a lemming looking for a cliff and possibly a helping hand off of it.
"And I'm sure your understanding of crops will lend you a unique insight into the problem." The Colonel's manically friendly toned plummeted into business. "We're running behind schedule."
They weren't, actually, but they stepped up the pace anyway. Leroy didn't mind. It seemed to keep the Colonel happy, or at least didn't serve to further piss the man off. The Colonel was prickly, but it was to be expected. A man having to put up with this many civilians was gonna have to vent somehow, and Leroy would rather have a prickly commander than a twitchy one.
But moving that fast had consequences. Sure, they had been going too fast for them to keep chattering like squirrels, and Dean had finally put the M&Ms away, but civilians were soft. It didn't take long before Dr. Greenburg was panting like a dog and stumbling like a drunk. Leroy steadied the guy a few times and Teyla called upon the Colonel to whoa up.
"We're almost there."
He wasn't kidding. Several minutes later the group emerged from the forest and marched onto the top of a steep hill. Blue sky wrapped its way around the horizon, disappearing only when the panoramic view took you back to the forest. The hill was sharp and jagged and nearly deserved to be called a cliff. The ground seemed stable enough, but there was signs of a mudslide only a day or two old that had carried away some of the trees that had tried to find purchase on the hill. Below the hill was yet more forest that seemed to stare petulantly at the hill.
Dr. Greensburg wasn't paying any attention to that. The man had dropped to the ground the moment the team had stopped walking. He was fumbling with the side pocket that had his canteen while lying on the ground. Leroy had expected Winchester to follow suit. Instead Leroy watched as the Dean, no more winded than Leroy, walked to edge of the hill and took on the view, popping a few more M&Ms into his mouth. "Neat."
Leroy strode up, giving another glance around. The view wasn't really any different from where he had been standing, except for a glint a long ways off, which was probably a lake or something. So far it remained devoid of things that needed to be killed, and thus lacked anything truly interesting.
A mechanical whine filled the air, and for a moment Leroy had the vague worry that he had somehow jinxed everything. That worry eased when a Puddle Jumper skimmed it's way into view, poking over the forest and plunging into the blue skies.
Leroy nearly jumped out of his skin when the Colonel laughed. "Dr. McKay is driving that one. You can tell by how it won't go straight. I swear that man thinks in circles."
They stood in silence, watching, except for Dr. Greenburg, who seemed content to lie. Sure enough, it was true. The Puddle Jumper seemed to swing back and forth, like a fish with a tendency to overcompensate. It moved through the sky with ease, even though the thing was shaped like a grey tin can. It didn't even have wings, just these tiny thrusters that stuck out maybe a foot from the body. It was a miracle that the thing flew.
Then something small and greedy rose up from the forest ahead and the Puddle Jumper was falling, just like a tin can. That is, if tin cans could smoke.
"Sam!" Dean hissed, his eyes wide with horror as the ship disappeared into the forest.
"Sheppard to Puddle Jumper 3, Sheppard to Puddle Jumper 3, do you copy? Do you copy? Dammit McKay, I said do you fucking copy?" The Colonel snarled at the silence. "This is Sheppard to Boot Camp, respond."
"This is Boot Camp," came the cracked reply over the radio.
"Puddle Jumper 3 is down. I repeat, Puddle Jumper 3 is down. Enemy fire." The Colonel was scouting out ways down the hill as he rifled off commands. Leroy felt the tingle of approaching action. While rescue missions weren't seek and destroy, they were a damn sight better than training. "I want the camp evacuated through the Stargate. People go through first, then anything we don't need anyone getting their hands on. If you can't get it through the gate, blow it. Contact Lorne and have him arrange a team. I want flybys, I want them cloaked, and I want them scanning with the Life Sign Detectors. Land if they can. If not, hold tight for my signal."
"Yes, Sir!"
"I've got civvies and a rookie I'm sending your way. I'll contact you as soon as Teyla and I have located the Jumper." The Colonel signed off of the radio. "Corporal Young, you take Winchester and Greenburg back to camp and you get them there fast."
Leroy wanted to argue. He wanted to curse and swear and demand to be taken to recover the Puddle Jumper, but he was a soldier who followed orders. "Yes, Sir."
"Hell, no!" Dean snarled. "My brother was on that thing and I'll be damned if I abandon him."
The Colonel gave the kid a cold look. "You don't know your brother was on that ship. There are a dozen flights scheduled for today. More importantly, you're a civilian with no gate experience. You are going back with Corporal Young even if I have to let him shoot you."
Dean had enough rage rattling around inside him that he was shaking with it. "You asshole! You can't just order me-"
"And why wouldn't I be able to?" The Colonel kept his voice soft and daring. There was something about the Colonel's tone that suggested if that question wasn't answered very carefully, someone really was getting a bullet as a souvenir.
Dean blinked. "What?"
"Why wouldn't I be able to just order you?" The challenge stood above the noise of the forest and Leroy began to suspect that the Colonel and Dean we're still at odds over the whole bug incident. Dean, for his part, merely sucked in a breath and eased it out slowly. His eyes glared murder, but when it became apparent that was all that he was gonna do the Colonel shuffled him to the back of his mind. "Teyla, let's go."
Leroy led his pair of civilians back through the woods. It wasn't hard to see which way they had come from. Broken branches and boot prints in the mud highlighted the path, which was good because time was definitely a factor. Unfortunately, time didn't seem to know that and they weren't moving faster than how'd they come.
"Please! Stop. I need a break." Why they were moving slow wasn't a mystery. Leroy had already made Dr. Greenburg drop his pack, ignoring the man snivel about some book he was a damn fool to bring out here in the first place. Still, it seemed as though every few minutes the scientist was out of breath and complaining.
Still Leroy stopped. "You get five." He glanced around the forest, watching for enemy movement, while Dr. Greenburg slurped on his canteen. God, if the enemy had made it this far out they were dead. That was why Dr. Greenburg only got a three-minute break.
Leroy hauled him to his feet, grabbing the man by the wrist with the intent to drag him if he had too. He'd taken a whole three steps before he realized that something was seriously wrong, a few moments of staring for the problem to sink in.
"Where the hell is Dean?"
Leroy hated civilians.
X_X_X_X_X_X_X_X_
Next
International Oversight Advisory- hence for to be called the IOA is an organization that reviews SGC activities, controls funding, and has is supposed to ensure that people don't abuse power and such.
Buttstick- the back part of a gun that is braced against the shoulder when you fire.
Traps: a spike board is a bit like a fatal rake. Two boards are set on either end of a stick and one is riddled with spikes. They are set over a hole and when you step on the trigger board, the spiked board swings up and smacks you in the face or the chest. Sometimes trip wires would be attached to grenades, other times they'd trigger things like the swinging logs in cartoons and Star Wars. A tiger trap was a particularly nasty one that, when activated, dropped a spiked board on its intended victim.
M7g-667- Episode Childhood's End. There was a planet were people committed suicide at age 25 to prevent the Wraith from finding them.
Meg- Possessed Sam in Episode Born Under a Bad Sign, Season three.
Ghost Town Corpse- Season 2 All Hell Breaks Loose. Sam dies.
AN-spellchecked best I could manage. Still looking for a beta. Hope you enjoy
Author:Calamityjim
Fandoms:Supernatura/SGA
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Supernatural-Spoilers to season 5, SG-1, to season 9, and SGA, all seasons. Also Violence, swearing, pairings, sexual content, and aliens
Disclaimer:Stargate belongs to MGM, Supernatural to the CW
Distribution: Crossposted on fanfic.net
Previous
Disclaimer: Not Mine
Faustian Hopscotch
Chapter 5
Burn This Building Down
Chuck was a technician. While that was a career choice that required a certain set of skills that only came with time and higher education, were anyone who knew the man asked to describe his job they'd tell start and stop with him being the guy who reset your technological doodad to make it work again. Even the people at the SGC, a place where everyone knew that a geek was worth his weight in weapons grade naquadah, described him as the reset guy. Never mind that he maintained the hardware and software of one of the most secret and secure places in the US. Never mind that he developed patches and bypasses and designed software upgrades for technology that had never been seen before on Earth. Never mind he worked with equipment most people believed existed only in the realm of science fiction. Nope, he was the guy who reset things.
Guns didn't have a reset function. They also didn't require software patches. They couldn't be rewired to increase efficiency and they didn't get viruses uploaded into their databases. So why Chuck was holding one was beyond him.
Certainly, he understood the theory, but he better understood that the theoretical and the practical were fields apart. Outlining a theory where he listened to the marine barking out orders and walked away a marksman was like trying to calculate acceleration while ignoring friction. Sure, there was some pretty math involved but it just didn't translate off the page.
This was why Chuck was content to glare at the piece of paper a few hundred yards off instead of trying to inflict damage upon it; trying being the operative word. He was more of a Yoda fan anyway. He preferred the 'do not' to 'try'.
So far, he was managing his glaring quite well. He'd been sorted into the group with the least experience with firearms, which left him as one of a few dozen wedged into the stalls of the makeshift firing range. Apparently not firing at all let Chuck fly beneath the frustrated instructor's radar. The incoherent screams of rage that punctuated the air only validated that not firing was definitely better than trying and doing it wrong.
"Hey." Chuck glanced back, surprised to find Sam Winchester watching him intently. Until that moment, Chuck had been certain that he didn't register anywhere on Sam's radar. Not that Sam had anything against the technician, or geeks in general. It was just that as far as Chuck could tell, no one who wasn't Dean or Ronon or directly speaking to Sam really made an impression. Both of the Winchesters were like that. They were aloof enough that everybody on the base 'knew' a bit about them, because nobody knew them at all.
There were all sorts of theories floating about as to why they were like that and why they were on Atlantis, and a revised batch had come out after Dean made sport of a couple of marines. The pair had gone from possible International Oversight Advisory agents, seeking to tidy up Atlantis, to possible Asgard bio-experiments who were going to be an ace in the hole next time the Wraith decided to attack. Or they were cloned variations of O'Neill's dead son. Or a Jaffa prince and bodyguard sent to absorb Earth culture without risking exposure. Or aliens who had been hiding on Earth. Or advanced AIs. Or or or. The theories went on and on, each becoming a little more inane than the last. If they really had been robots the Colonel wouldn't have been able to gut one of them, and enough of Sam's insides had been left in the hallway to know that they weren't made of wire. Still, no matter what the truth, it was really peculiar that Sam was speaking to him.
"Are you jammed? You haven't fired a shot."
Chuck offered a shrug and more than willingly handed his weapon into Sam's proffered hand. He watched, baffled but curious, as Sam poked, prodded, shook and smacked the gun. When Sam finished mauling the P90 he looked up with a small but knowing grin. For it's size it was amazing how much concern and sympathy he had packed into the expression. "It's not jammed."
Chuck took the safest route and gave Sam another shrug.
"Are you right handed or left?"
"Right?" Chuck ventured, not sure where this was going.
Sam nodded, more to himself than to Chuck, and offered the P90 back. Chuck grasped it gingerly, not overly thrilled to have had it handed back to him. His displeasure flowed into alarm when Sam didn't fully let go. Instead he guided the weapon to Chuck's shoulder while simultaneously circling, tacking Chuck to Sam with the gun.
"Excuse me, but what are you doing?"
"Teaching you to shoot," came the absent reply as the pressure against Chuck's shoulder was adjusted.
"Why?" Chuck asked, nonplussed.
Sam continued to manipulate the gun against Chuck's shoulder. "You came and got me when Dean was being, well, Dean." Sam's tone was a mix of fondness and derision, which blew all the Dean's just a body guard theories, but definitely leant credibility to them being possible lovers. "This is the least I can do to help." Sam unfurled himself from Chuck, tutting as he scrutinized his work.
"Your footwork is all off," Sam murmured. "You need to square your feet off, and move your dominant foot a few inches behind the other." Sam grabbed Chuck's legs, hauling them into position. "This is called the athletic stance. You brace yourself better, reducing the impact of recoil, and you have a greater range of movement for targeting. It works way better than the Hollywood posturing that you were trying."
Chuck endured Sam's ministrations with a polite bewilderment, listening as best he could to Sam's running commentary as the other positioned him like some kind of GI-Joe. Chuck held the pose as best he could, his body grumbling at the unfamiliarity of the stance as Sam finally finished his tweaking. "Do you know how to aim?"
Instead of bleeding exasperation at yet another of Chuck's blank shrugs, Sam moved closer to the barrel, pointing out the sights on either side. "The P90 is fully ambidextrous," Sam explained, " and is the first of its kind to be so. Now, you line up your sights," Sam wiggled the gun again, "and keep both eyes open. There is no point in aiming your gun if you're only going to do half the job." Sam's explanation sounded rote, as though it was something he'd been told a hundred times. "When you're ready to fire twist this here. It's your safety. You won't be able to shoot when it's here, but give it a twist," Chuck complied, "and now you're on semi-auto. If you twist it again you're on full auto, which is a great way to waste ammo. Ready? Just give the trigger a gently squeeze."
Chuck did and the world exploded. The P90 heaved a scream as it slammed back, pounding into Chuck's shoulder. It's cry echoed in his fingertips, leaving them buzzing as the gun faded to silence. His own shout of surprise was swallowed by nerves and adrenaline as they tangled, dancing across his skin like fire. He lowered the weapon and let out a shaky breath.
"Good job," Sam said in the same tone as elementary school teachers everywhere. "Now this time relax your grip and let out a breath before you fire."
x-x-x-x-x-x-
Information flowed like a river, rising and rushing with rainfall, swirling into unexpected nicks in the bank, eddying until it was ready to surge forward. It pushed and carved, gently smoothing away the rough edges until everything fit with the precision of puzzle pieces. It brought nutrients to those who lived near its edge, sustaining life and encouraging growth, letting the world flourish into richness. It was information that made everything possible, that made everything work together.
That John had none was pissing him off. Seriously, he was the goddamn commander of the entire fucking military contingent on Atlantis and no one was telling him a goddamn thing. He had tried to come to grips with the fact that his military had been picking on civilians, and not the pulling pigtails grade school crap but of the full-blown high school wedgies and swirlies variety, but he had given up on rationalizing when he realized that he was dealing with the tip of one hell of an iceberg. There was simply no way that Elizabeth didn't know that Dean could take care of himself and anyone that crossed his path, yet she hadn't told John. She hadn't told him anything about the Winchesters and that was more than a simple fucking oversight. That was tactical shit that John needed to know and he needed to know why everyone was trying so hard to keep it a secret. Trying and failing fucking miserably. John wasn't an idiot and everyone was dropping baskets of breadcrumbs. Take, for instance, the fact that Dean had managed to ambush Teyla in a forest.
Teyla. In a forest.
That was like sneaking up behind the goddamn Batman in an alleyway. It just wasn't fucking done.
It hadn't been a clean victory, with Ronon stunning Dean (and what the hell was up with that?) but it was closer than any of the marines fresh of the Daedalus had ever gotten. John had personally re-sorted Dean into more advanced fire arms class, grimly curious as to how Dean would cope with the stricter standards required for a pass. Dean had risen to the challenge, passing with a comfortable buffer despite the fact that the records of Atlantis's firing range indicated Dean couldn't hit the target if he threw the bullets. Apparently his ability was directly related to the number of marines taking bets.
And now Sam, who had barely scraped by in his own fire arms training, had Chuck Campbell, if not raking in the bull's-eyes, then at least firing well enough to stay alive in an actual combat scenario. And just to ice the proverbial cake, despite Sam's struggles with the P90, both he and Dean had managed a perfect head shot and a wince-worthy one to the groin that, without the fucking mountain of evidence John had of there being something up, would have been considered a fluke.
Something was going on and John was going to get to the bottom if he had to dig there himself.
Frustrated and disturbed, John slipped away from where he had stood to watch the firing range. The camp was mix of activity as various groups trained and tested and, despite the seriousness of the training, the air seemed quite jovial. John marched on, feeling like a tornado in a Disney movie as he tromped a direct path, blowing past the unwary. He followed the sharp clack of sticks that nicked the air to a crowd of hooting marines. The crowd parted for John, especially after he threw a few elbows. He watched at the front, a frown engraved on his face.
"Teyla!" He snapped. The Athosian turned, acknowledging John's impatience with an eyebrow. The marine, obviously new, decided to press his advantage, moving in for the kill while Teyla was distracted. Two swings and he was eating dirt. John sheared back through the crowd, which this time parted for him like water before a shark. He didn't bother to check back to see if Teyla was following him. He knew she would be.
His second stop took him to Ronon, who was demonstrating the finer points of hand-to-hand for some of the keener civilians. At the wave of John's chin he passed off the activity to Corporal Croswell, following John as he picked his way towards the edge of camp. Finding a spot that was shielded from intruders and the weird happy vibes, John indulged by leaning up against the trunk of one of the trees acting as a barrier between him and the insanity of his troops. He crossed his arms lightly, his thumbs hanging out to twiddle as he kicked a heel and dug it deep into the wood. "What do you guys know about the Winchesters?"
"Very little," Teyla pursed her lips in thought. "They are quite clever and both are more capable then they would have you believe." Her words were soft and deliberate, a sign that she had not settled her own opinion on the matter.
John nodded, perturbed. Teyla had a gift, and it wasn't her whole ability to sense Wraith. She seemed to know people the way Rodney knew science. It was somewhere deep in her bones that let her see things others didn't. It had saved their Asses on many occasions. The fact that she had no more information than John was unnerving, to say the least.
He glanced at Ronon, knowing he had been spending time with the two.
"Sam likes steckleberry muffins."
"Really?" John drawled, stuffing as much sarcasm into the word as he could manage, which happened to be a lot considering its length. Besides being utterly unhelpful, Ronon's contribution was painfully obvious. Those muffins were disturbingly delicious. He was fairly certain Rodney had someone working on cloning steckleberries because the suppliers were stingy. "Anything else?" Perhaps something relevant.
"No." The word had the force of a mudslide.
John could feel the muscles in his shoulders tighten into cords, ligament by ligament. "Right." He reminded himself that he could trust Ronon, that Ronon would follow him through hell. He huffed out a breath. "Fine." It was fine. "I want eyes and ear on them at all times. Teyla, you cover Sam-"
"I'm with Sam."
Something shattered in the ensuing silence, but John was the only one who could hear it. "Excuse me?" John pulled out his best Colonel voice, trying to pin Ronon with a look.
He could have been pissing in the wind for all the affect it had. "I'm with Sam," Ronon said as though it were written in stone.
"Alright." John gave Ronon a smile full of teeth. "You're with Sam. Now that we've settled that, why don't you go back to playing with the marines?" John's tone was saccharine and mocking and they both knew it.
Ronon held John's gaze, and when he looked away it wasn't because he couldn't match John. He turned like a lion that was bored with its prey and strode off with a casual deliberation.
"Teyla." She was also watching Ronon's departure with a thoughtful little frown that was all soft edges. "Cover Dean. And get me Cadman, will you?"
John was going to figure out what the hell was going on and not even Ronon was going to stand in his fucking way.
x-x-x-x-x-
People tended to talk about Dean Winchester. And why not? He had a face that even angels wanted to wear, with eyes so green that envy was applying to have a color change. His body was a temple that had been hand sculpted by only the most talented artisans and was maintained daily by adulating worshippers. He had perfected and patented the term Big Brother©. He was a topnotch mechanic that could make even the most enervated of wrecks purr with new life and he was an even better driver. He was a bit of a rascal, though those less enamored with his charm tended to toss around terms like troublemaker or, from those who actively disliked him, a deviant. He was a man-slut who couldn't hold a steady relationship for more than a few hours, an uneducated hick who was on a fast track to nowhere.
Most people Dean met didn't peg him as being the quickest on the uptake. Even Sam, who knew Dean as well as anyone could, occasionally suspected his brother wasn't playing with a full deck. That was fine. Dean was keeping the aces up his sleeve.
It was easy to play the part of the idiot. People tended to treat him like one. They flashed watery smiles that didn't reach their eyes, used little words that they pronounced slowly, and forgot he was in the room when they turned to discuss more serious matters in hefty voices and extensive vocabulary. All Dean had to do was be there and keep a big, dumb smile on his face.
At least, that was how it was supposed to work.
"Sheppard wants to know what's going on." Ronon stood shoulder to shoulder with Dean, watching as an afternoon storm rained out the activities. Some of the keeners were still working on practice, tossing each other in the mud with the enthusiasm of kids at recess. Mostly everyone had retreated to their tents. A few seeking solitude had done as Dean and Ronon, pulling up a tree to hide under as they watched rain.
"That's nice," Dean grumbled. The fact that he'd been switched to the marine's training schedule had been a tip off, with the passing grades no longer being something Dean could trip over. It was why as much of his energies right now were devoted to keeping an eye on Sam as he stood across the clearing. He'd seemed to have made friends with a geek and the pair could be seen talking enthusiastically under a clump of trees, each taking turns to watch the other with wide-eyed wonder as they hid from the rain. Dean had a suspicion that despite how interested they looked, whatever they were talking about was lethally boring. Geeks were like that.
"I want to know what's going on." There was something hard in Ronon's tone that caused Dean to glance at the big alien out of the corner of his eye.
Dean jutted his chin defensively. "And I want to know why the hell you keep stunning me. Looks like we're both out of luck, Rapunzel."
"Promised McKay I'd threaten you. I'm making it look good." Ronon gave Dean a sideways look. "What did you do to piss him off?"
"Nothing. Christ." Dean kicked at the ground. The responding squelch was unsatisfactory. "And why the hell did you promise him that?"
Ronon gave a half-hearted shrug. "Was going to do it anyway. Plus, he gave me stuff."
"This is about those marines, isn't it?" Dean sighed. Every inch of Ronon's body was waiting for a reasonable explanation. "Look, it got out of hand." Rained continued to shoot down, splashing high enough that walking through it was bound to get your knees wet. The storm looked like it was going to last a few more hours, at least. "He threatened Sam, okay?"
Ronon's silence lightened a few shades. "Think he meant it?" Dean shrugged. When had that ever mattered?
Somewhere over the pitter of water hitting the leaves, several birds were calling. The cacophonic cries jangled through the rhythm of the rain, like a bell shattering the morning. The noise seemed to hang in the air, like the question Ronon wasn't going to ask. Why are you both here?
Dean gathered his courage, pulling it close the way a child piled on blankets. He took a deep breath, stepping off the ledge into uncharted territory, and decided to trust someone because he wanted to, not because he had to. "You know about Sam." His brother was laughing across the clearing, a smile teasing across his new geek friend's face. "You're not the only one. This group found out. Came after him." Dean rubbed at the back of his neck, the skin slick with moisture. "I hid him, best I could, but the simple fact is that I couldn't protect him there. They were good and it was only going to take one slip up and I would have lost him." Dean swallowed, trying to push back the memory of Sam with Meg's black eyes, and the weight of a corpse in a ghost town.
"Johnny-General O'Neill," Dean corrected, "he sent us here to keep Sam safe. We're trying to lie low. The longer it takes them to realize we are, the longer Sam'll have a chance." Sam gave his new friend a pat on the back and for a moment the guy looked like the kid had bad touched him. "I'm just not good at this." Not good at hiding, at waiting, at not being the one leading the charge. Stillness was not the Winchester way.
Ronon gave a soft grunt. "Sheppard's not gonna stop til he knows."
"You gonna tell him?" Ronon's fingers twitched and Dean was pretty sure the alien was fighting the urge to stun him. He was hoping it was the urge to stun him. "Right." Dean drawled, shivering as droplets slid from the leaves and with bomber precision slipped down his neck.
"He's having you watched."
"Well, I am incredibly sexy." As was his stalker. He'd tagged Teyla as being a tail when she had started being the fifth player on every four-man team Dean was sorted into. See? The whole being dumb thing still worked a little in his favor.
"I'm watching Sam," Ronon proclaimed.
Dean gave a half-smile. "Yeah?" Ronon didn't bother to nod. They continued to watch Sam together in silence.
Fuck, the situation was ridiculous. There was just too much going on. Dean wanted off of this rock, out of this forest, and back in the halls of Atlantis. Hell, he might have even wanted back on Earth. Sure, the NID had been nipping at their heels, but Sam had already basically died and come back on their first week on Atlantis. Now they were out here on some stupid ball of dirt with too many trees and too many eyes peeking out from between them. At the city he and Sam could avoid everyone. Atlantis would whisper when people were coming, if Dean asked, and they could raid the cafeteria at nights and go hole up in some unexplored hallway. The city was the size of freaking New York. If he and Sam needed to stay disappeared they could.
There he could at least take Sam and hide out if shit went wrong. Here… Dean hated trees. They hid things. Big, hungry things. And they made you itchy.
And tomorrow he was going hiking.
Fun.
x-x-x-x-x-x
Marching through forests sucked.
For a lucky man it was mind numbingly redundant, passing along the same stretch of godforsaken land with the same people over and over again. Insects flew up or dropped down or just instantly manifested themselves into your reality with the sole intent of snacking on your sensitive bits. Animals watched you with all kinds of intent that Disney had failed to mention. Plants grabbed at you with the desperation of a beggar, vines curled around you feet like a lover, treacherously never letting go, and thorns would pierce even the thickest of protective gear. Everything was either diseased, poisonous, or infested.
And that was for the lucky man.
An unlucky one faced the additional challenges of local hospitality, which was often expressed through carefully crafted welcome mats of the sharp spike variety. It was amazing how little it took to incapacitate a man. Side-closing Panji traps were so simply even a child could make one. Put a few nails in a board, set it over a hole, and man would find himself in a whole world of hurt. Not as much as if he came across a spike board, mind you. One miss step and you'd have a face full of stakes. Of course, there was the razor wire strung about that glistened like a spider's web in the morning dew and tripwires that triggered almost anything. If you hit a trip wire you'd better pray, because your sorry ass was in God's hands.
Or course, being all hospitable-like meant that on occasion the natives would give their personal attention to the soldiers. It was no wonder they'd lost Vietnam. It was as though the entire forest had declared war, bullets coming from every angle as shadows slid into darker shadows, blood and foliage filling the air like confetti.
Lance Corporal Leroy Young drank in every second of it with the grace of a connoisseur. He recognized those moments as being perfect for demonstrating to the world why you did not fuck with Leroy Young and used every opportunity to it's fullest. He loved marching.
But damn, did he hate civilians.
He'd been warned, of course, about the silly civilian games that were played during marches, mostly because civilians had the attention span of three years olds and the physical endurance of Leroy's gran, which was saying something cause she'd been dead for a while now. He'd asked about and been told the best way to wiggle out of Prime-Not Prime, been given a few games to suggest that weren't entirely annoying and would keep the civilians focused on not bothering you.
However, no one had reckoned to give him advice on how to handle this situation in particulars.
Dr. Willy Greenburg was all pale with rage that trickled into his voice with the subtly of a whistle, making the same shrill sound. "Our current reports show that one of the many deficits of the cultures in Pegasus is their inability to provide modern medicine to their people! Providing them with vegetation that can be used as antiseptics would both demonstrate our peaceful nature while fostering trust between us and the people indigenous to this galaxy!" The man was so young that the ink on his degree couldn't have been wet. He wasn't particularly scrawny, but he gave off the feel of someone who was, struggling with his pack, even though the civilians weren't carrying half the gear the soldiers were. His brown hair was that movie start short, which meant just long enough that you could muss it to look like an idiot. The man was pale and bug-eyed, and his voice tended to wheedle. Leroy was also pretty sure he was the idiot who mentioned the bug incident in the gate room.
Dean Winchester, on the other hand, was the idiot who'd sworn loud enough that the whole contingent could have pointed him out. "Dude, they have plants here." An arm waved to indicate the forest. Dean seemed to be having no problem with his pack, except keeping it packed. From his spot in the rear Leroy could see how tightly crap had been crammed in there, with the sides bulging in odd spots. "You really think handing them a few more is going to be appreciated?" Dean continued to instigate, popping a few M&Ms into his mouth from a huge bag he had pulled seemingly out of nowhere. Not only had he refused to share, but he seemed to take delight in cracking the shells of the candy so loud that Leroy was pretty damn sure Atlantis could hear him.
"I'm not giving them plants," Dr. Greenburg shrieked. "I'm providing them with medical intervention."
"Made of plants. And isn't that like environmental assassination?"
"What?!" Leroy gritted his teeth, flicking a glance to the Colonel, who seemed strangely unaffected by the drama. He'd heard the Colonel was a tough bastard, but this was impressive. Leroy wished he'd quit being so damned impressive and get the civilians under goddamn control.
"You introduce a plant in the new environment and them bam, a year later all you got is this plant because it's killed everything else off. It's like you're trying to kill off the first aliens you meet." Dean cracked a few more M&Ms.
"You-" The biologist sputtered, his brain either at a complete loss or too full of insults to pick which one should come out of his mouth first.
Leroy wasn't sure which one of them he wanted to shoot more. Dean had been instigating like nobody's business, and only a complete idiot could have missed that fact. That being said, Dr Greenburg had walked into trap after trap. The march was supposed to take a total of five hours, led by the Colonel to evaluate physical endurance and the ability to endure alien environments or some such other hootenanny. They were nearly at two and the entire time Dr. Greenburg had been on the defensive, while Dean smugly munched on his goddamn M&Ms. He'd already berated the man for bringing chocolate (do you want to introduce diabetes into a pre-industrialized society?) gold (cause we're not still killing each other for it), and a museum of natural history (great, I'm sure knowing what violent bastards we are is a great way to start an alliance). Leroy's trigger finger was getting mighty twitchy.
"What would you offer, Dean Winchester?" Teyla asked. She gave Leroy the willies. She radiated the same sense of knowing that Leroy's ma had, as though she knew you hadn't washed behind your ears like you'd gone and said you'd had.
Dean offered the lady a smile that fit better in a bar than it did in the forest they were inching through. "You mean other than my fine self?" The doctor sputtered incoherently. "I'd bring a Chevy Impala."
Teyla's face smoothed into a frown, but Leroy felt his sprits lift a bit. "What year?"
Dean gave the Corporal a look so flat you could have served tea off of it. "Dude, 1967 or bust."
Leroy grunted, impressed despite himself. That right there was a fine machine.
"You'd bring a car? You'd bring a car to represent the value of Earth culture to aliens? A stupid car?" Dr. Frederick's voice was hollow with horror.
Dean crunched on a few more M&Ms. "No, I'd bring a Chevy Impala," he spoke in a tone of exaggerated patience. "It's a deft piece of engineering that will drive until the apocalypse if you maintain her right, and her stereo system is no slouch. She perfectly embodies our technological capabilities and has the added bonus of being able to play the most important music of our time. And," Dean added with care, "she won't cause an ecological crisis."
Dr. Greenburg seemed to be looking for a snotty reply, but Teyla flowed over him. "I have enjoyed my experiences with Earth vehicles. What would you bring, Corporal Young?"
Leroy snorted. He gave his P90 a tender rub. He was carrying all he'd ever need to meet an alien.
"I'd bring a Ferris wheel," the Colonel murmured almost absently. It was the first thing he'd added to the conversation, besides the tension that rolled off him like radiation.
Teyla gave a smile that was both knowing and nostalgic and Leroy took it as a cue to keep his mouth shut. "I thought your gift of choice was a football?"
The Colonel laughed lightly. "I already gave one of those to Rodney's kids."
"Dr. McKay has children?" Dr. Greenburg was the one to ask, but the air was thick with every one listening for the answer.
The Colonel gave an amused chuckle as he pushed past a low hanging branch. "He was adopted by the kids of M7G-677". The air slackened in relief. Some thoughts were just too horrifying. "He also did give them chocolate."
Leroy almost let out a groan. "You see?!" Whaled Dr. Greenburg. "McKay gave them chocolate! I told you it was a good idea."
The Colonel shrugged. "Maybe. To be fair, they were a planet full of kids."
Dr. Frederick seemed bound and determined to wine the "Most Fucking Annoying Civilian" Award and he was doing a shockingly good job considering his competition was still smacking on those goddamn M&Ms that he still wouldn't goddamn share. "How can a planet possibly be populated only by children?" His tone was a deadly mix of skepticism, patronization, and curiosity.
The Colonel froze mid-step, like a cat that had just noticed he had company. Leroy was sorta hoping he was gonna turn around and deck the scientist. Instead, the Colonel gave a smile aimed at the jugular. "Poor urban planning." His tone was too friendly to be trusted. "In fact," the Colonel said brightly, "when we get back to Atlantis you can go through the SGA-1 reports and discover the problem for yourself. Maybe you'll come up with a few helpful suggestions."
"But I'm a biologist!" Dr. Greenburg plowed on like a lemming looking for a cliff and possibly a helping hand off of it.
"And I'm sure your understanding of crops will lend you a unique insight into the problem." The Colonel's manically friendly toned plummeted into business. "We're running behind schedule."
They weren't, actually, but they stepped up the pace anyway. Leroy didn't mind. It seemed to keep the Colonel happy, or at least didn't serve to further piss the man off. The Colonel was prickly, but it was to be expected. A man having to put up with this many civilians was gonna have to vent somehow, and Leroy would rather have a prickly commander than a twitchy one.
But moving that fast had consequences. Sure, they had been going too fast for them to keep chattering like squirrels, and Dean had finally put the M&Ms away, but civilians were soft. It didn't take long before Dr. Greenburg was panting like a dog and stumbling like a drunk. Leroy steadied the guy a few times and Teyla called upon the Colonel to whoa up.
"We're almost there."
He wasn't kidding. Several minutes later the group emerged from the forest and marched onto the top of a steep hill. Blue sky wrapped its way around the horizon, disappearing only when the panoramic view took you back to the forest. The hill was sharp and jagged and nearly deserved to be called a cliff. The ground seemed stable enough, but there was signs of a mudslide only a day or two old that had carried away some of the trees that had tried to find purchase on the hill. Below the hill was yet more forest that seemed to stare petulantly at the hill.
Dr. Greensburg wasn't paying any attention to that. The man had dropped to the ground the moment the team had stopped walking. He was fumbling with the side pocket that had his canteen while lying on the ground. Leroy had expected Winchester to follow suit. Instead Leroy watched as the Dean, no more winded than Leroy, walked to edge of the hill and took on the view, popping a few more M&Ms into his mouth. "Neat."
Leroy strode up, giving another glance around. The view wasn't really any different from where he had been standing, except for a glint a long ways off, which was probably a lake or something. So far it remained devoid of things that needed to be killed, and thus lacked anything truly interesting.
A mechanical whine filled the air, and for a moment Leroy had the vague worry that he had somehow jinxed everything. That worry eased when a Puddle Jumper skimmed it's way into view, poking over the forest and plunging into the blue skies.
Leroy nearly jumped out of his skin when the Colonel laughed. "Dr. McKay is driving that one. You can tell by how it won't go straight. I swear that man thinks in circles."
They stood in silence, watching, except for Dr. Greenburg, who seemed content to lie. Sure enough, it was true. The Puddle Jumper seemed to swing back and forth, like a fish with a tendency to overcompensate. It moved through the sky with ease, even though the thing was shaped like a grey tin can. It didn't even have wings, just these tiny thrusters that stuck out maybe a foot from the body. It was a miracle that the thing flew.
Then something small and greedy rose up from the forest ahead and the Puddle Jumper was falling, just like a tin can. That is, if tin cans could smoke.
"Sam!" Dean hissed, his eyes wide with horror as the ship disappeared into the forest.
"Sheppard to Puddle Jumper 3, Sheppard to Puddle Jumper 3, do you copy? Do you copy? Dammit McKay, I said do you fucking copy?" The Colonel snarled at the silence. "This is Sheppard to Boot Camp, respond."
"This is Boot Camp," came the cracked reply over the radio.
"Puddle Jumper 3 is down. I repeat, Puddle Jumper 3 is down. Enemy fire." The Colonel was scouting out ways down the hill as he rifled off commands. Leroy felt the tingle of approaching action. While rescue missions weren't seek and destroy, they were a damn sight better than training. "I want the camp evacuated through the Stargate. People go through first, then anything we don't need anyone getting their hands on. If you can't get it through the gate, blow it. Contact Lorne and have him arrange a team. I want flybys, I want them cloaked, and I want them scanning with the Life Sign Detectors. Land if they can. If not, hold tight for my signal."
"Yes, Sir!"
"I've got civvies and a rookie I'm sending your way. I'll contact you as soon as Teyla and I have located the Jumper." The Colonel signed off of the radio. "Corporal Young, you take Winchester and Greenburg back to camp and you get them there fast."
Leroy wanted to argue. He wanted to curse and swear and demand to be taken to recover the Puddle Jumper, but he was a soldier who followed orders. "Yes, Sir."
"Hell, no!" Dean snarled. "My brother was on that thing and I'll be damned if I abandon him."
The Colonel gave the kid a cold look. "You don't know your brother was on that ship. There are a dozen flights scheduled for today. More importantly, you're a civilian with no gate experience. You are going back with Corporal Young even if I have to let him shoot you."
Dean had enough rage rattling around inside him that he was shaking with it. "You asshole! You can't just order me-"
"And why wouldn't I be able to?" The Colonel kept his voice soft and daring. There was something about the Colonel's tone that suggested if that question wasn't answered very carefully, someone really was getting a bullet as a souvenir.
Dean blinked. "What?"
"Why wouldn't I be able to just order you?" The challenge stood above the noise of the forest and Leroy began to suspect that the Colonel and Dean we're still at odds over the whole bug incident. Dean, for his part, merely sucked in a breath and eased it out slowly. His eyes glared murder, but when it became apparent that was all that he was gonna do the Colonel shuffled him to the back of his mind. "Teyla, let's go."
Leroy led his pair of civilians back through the woods. It wasn't hard to see which way they had come from. Broken branches and boot prints in the mud highlighted the path, which was good because time was definitely a factor. Unfortunately, time didn't seem to know that and they weren't moving faster than how'd they come.
"Please! Stop. I need a break." Why they were moving slow wasn't a mystery. Leroy had already made Dr. Greenburg drop his pack, ignoring the man snivel about some book he was a damn fool to bring out here in the first place. Still, it seemed as though every few minutes the scientist was out of breath and complaining.
Still Leroy stopped. "You get five." He glanced around the forest, watching for enemy movement, while Dr. Greenburg slurped on his canteen. God, if the enemy had made it this far out they were dead. That was why Dr. Greenburg only got a three-minute break.
Leroy hauled him to his feet, grabbing the man by the wrist with the intent to drag him if he had too. He'd taken a whole three steps before he realized that something was seriously wrong, a few moments of staring for the problem to sink in.
"Where the hell is Dean?"
Leroy hated civilians.
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Next
International Oversight Advisory- hence for to be called the IOA is an organization that reviews SGC activities, controls funding, and has is supposed to ensure that people don't abuse power and such.
Buttstick- the back part of a gun that is braced against the shoulder when you fire.
Traps: a spike board is a bit like a fatal rake. Two boards are set on either end of a stick and one is riddled with spikes. They are set over a hole and when you step on the trigger board, the spiked board swings up and smacks you in the face or the chest. Sometimes trip wires would be attached to grenades, other times they'd trigger things like the swinging logs in cartoons and Star Wars. A tiger trap was a particularly nasty one that, when activated, dropped a spiked board on its intended victim.
M7g-667- Episode Childhood's End. There was a planet were people committed suicide at age 25 to prevent the Wraith from finding them.
Meg- Possessed Sam in Episode Born Under a Bad Sign, Season three.
Ghost Town Corpse- Season 2 All Hell Breaks Loose. Sam dies.
AN-spellchecked best I could manage. Still looking for a beta. Hope you enjoy