Fic: Newcomers: Thomas Wright, USMC (SGA, OC, R, gen)
Title: Newcomers: Thomas Wright, USMC
Rating: R (for language, because there are Marines...), gen
Character: OC
Disclaimer: The context isn't mine (the main character is), no harm meant.
Summary: This is not his daddy's momma's Marine Corps.
A/N: This is kind of the less-silly version of Paradigm Shift: Served Cold, but it's also the start of a series based around an OC team of newcomers to Atlantis that should eventually swing round to connect with the story I just posted on sga_flashfic , The City is an Island, because I'm incapable of writing things that are self-contained. Among other things.
Thomas Wright, USMC
He's a freak. The doctors don't put it like that, but that's what they mean.
The first thing he knows about it is when they're all pulled in for random drug testing. He kind of thinks they're overdoing it. It's not exactly random if everybody's being tested, is it? By the time they're half-way through, everybody knows, and they've more than enough time to get straight.
Either way, he's not worried. He's never taken anything stronger than vodka, and he hasn't even drunk anything for weeks because his stomach is blown.
Then he's called back in.
"You're not in trouble," says the doctor, and Tom tries to stand even straighter.
There's three of them. Reynolds is a bit of a flake, but Sergeant Castle's as straight as they come, so maybe he isn't so badly off.
They wait, and wait, and finally a couple of Air Force officers turn up. They confer with the doctor, who protests a few times before stalking out with a sullen expression. The officers wait until he's gone, then turn to the three Marines.
"Sit down," says one, a Major. He looks, and sounds, like he's never been in a war zone before.
"Sir, permission to speak freely, sir?"
"Go ahead, Sergeant."
"What the hell's this about, sir?"
The Major smiles, all teeth and no warmth. "The three of you have a rare genetic trait that could be of great use to your country."
The other officer, a Captain, holds out papers to each of them. "Non-disclosure form. You'll have to sign this before we continue."
"Experiments?" The sergeant hasn't picked up the pen in front of him. "Sir."
The Major looks shocked. Tom's relieved to see it looks more genuine than his smile. "No. Good God, no."
Sergeant Castle watches him for a moment, then reads the form carefully. Finally, he signs it, pushing the sheet across the table to the Major. Reynolds and Tom follow his lead.
The Major takes something from a pocket and throws it across the table to Castle. As he catches it, the object lights up. The Major nods. "Now Reynolds."
Castle passes it to Reynolds. It flickers, but stays alight. "And Wright." Reynolds sets the thing on the table, and it goes dark.
When Tom picks it up, it glows bright.
~
They've barely been given time to breathe since leaving Afghanistan. He's never had so many needles stuck in him. Never had so much training in such a short space of time, even if a lot of it's lectures on "Working with Civilians" (the SGC vets call this "Don't Piss Off McKay") and "ATA Protocol" ("What not to touch in the Pegasus Galaxy") and what the schedule calls "Unanticipated First Contacts" ("The Sex Ritual and You" - He's pretty sure they're kidding. Pretty sure, but not certain.)
But now they're waiting. They've been ready to transfer to the city since 0600, been kicking their heels since 0630, and the General Hammond has been about one hour from readiness for the past 5 hours.
So now he has time to freak out.
Now he has time to wonder why he said yes. (He said yes, and hadn't even hesitated, and that was before they started the injections). Now he has time to think about travelling to another galaxy. (In a flying city. He'd laughed, and they'd just looked at him). Now he has time to think about the Wraith. (Life-sucking alien vampires that everyone assures him they have on the run, but he's seen the numbers-)
"Hey, you okay?"
He looks up to see Collins smirking at him, and nods. Collins snorts. "Yeah, I know the feeling."
He'd been getting a little tired (who is he kidding - he'd been getting a little terrified) of the blank expression everyone got when they heard that he's had little more than the most basic SERE training and all of three months combat experience. It was quickly followed by sympathy or hearty reassurances that Atlantis would be a cakewalk. The officers tended to walk away looking pensive and taking little notes.
Collins had just laughed at him. "Welcome to the SGC, pal."
Collins is a combat and an SGC veteran, a lifer, although he's not been to Atlantis. "Heard the stories, but," he said, darkly, but then grinned.
Now Collins is surveying the slumping ranks of Atlantis-bound military with a unimpressed expression - twenty Marines, about half of them new to the SGC, the last of the full platoon joining the expedition; five Airmen and three USAF Lieutenants, a dozen Finns whose rank Tom has never determined (and now they're in the same stark black Atlantis uniform as everyone else, and he probably never will) and another six Brits, assigned by the BSEF to the SGC and now to the AEMC (despite the protests of the IOA, and he thought the Corps liked its acronyms).
The uniforms threw him, as well. But even when they all look the same, each group is carefully seperate, and by more than the flag patches that denote country - the SGC veterans apart from the newcomers, the officers seperate from enlisted, Marine Corps from Air Force. Only Collins has bucked the trend, wandering over to Tom and ignoring the little huddle of Brits.
Collins looks on the verge of saying something damning in earshot of the harassed USAF Major who's supposed to be getting them to Atlantis, when the officer's radio buzzes.
"Finally," mutters the Major. "Alright, stand by, they're ready for you." He's about to say something else when there's a low hum, and the SGC disappears.
Tom's barely on his feet when it happens, and he staggers, Collins catching his elbow. He turns to thank him, but Collins isn't looking at him. Tom follows his gaze, and the words vanish.
They're in the gate room of Atlantis.
It was nearly midday in Colorado - out here in the middle of the Pacific the sun is still rising, and light floods into the gate room from the high windows behind the gate. The new arrivals are packed into the space before the gate, elbow to elbow, and no-one moves, each face turned to the light. In place of the grey concrete of the SGC, here is blue and purple, and shimmering gold, warm and cool together.
He hardly dares breathe, afraid the light will dim, the colours fade. Afraid he will stumble again.
No-one moves.
"No," says one of the Finns, softly. "Se on erilainen."
Tom's snapped out of his daze by a sharp voice that yells down from the control room. "Get them the hell out of here, will you? Bloody SGC has to leave everything to the last - yes, thank you Sam, we've got them, goodbye, we're leaving now -"
The floor starts to shake.
~
Colonel Sheppard both is and isn't what he expects. Not that the crazy stories build up a believable picture. The slouch he's heard about (he's crossed paths with some of the female Marines), but Tom doesn't expect Sheppard to look so startled when he stands to attention as the Colonel passes. Then again he doesn't expect Sheppard to take such care with settling the new contingent into Atlantis. He talks as much (which isn't very) about the veterans helping the newcomers adjust as he does about the new arrivals respecting the galaxy they've just travelled to. And they listen, which is just weird.
He's not surprised that the bulk of the assignments are made by Major Lorne. Lorne's a complete contrast to Sheppard, the kind of man Tom would have expected to see in the Air Force. But he too looks bemused by Tom's stance.
"We're a small base, and the ratio of officers to enlisted men is high. We don't -" He pauses. "It's more important to be ready than to be correct. Keep it for when you really need it."
"Sir, yessir."
"Think of it as - three seconds to salute is three seconds for the Wraith to reach you." Lorne's expression is serious.
"Sir, yessir. No saluting the Wraith, sir."
Major Lorne laughs. "Okay, Wright. Dismissed. Oh, and you're in line for training from tomorrow."
He thinks Ronon Dex is Sheppard's pet wild man, right up until he gets laid out in one move. That isn't just brute force. Tom's never been much for martial arts - he's a boxer, and never went for the flashier forms - but he knows technique.
Given what he knows of the Wraith, he's starting to see the benefit of keeping them further away than arm's length.
It turns out that facing Dex in the sparring room is pretty much trial by fire. After that first, brief fight, the training is taken over by a handful of their Athosian allies, at least until he learns more of the Pegasean fighting styles.
He doesn't have a problem with women in the military. His mother was, for one. Teyla Emmagen isn't exactly military, but the other Marines paint her as this warrior princess. He doesn't expect her to be so tiny.
She is gracious, though, and he can see why the guys are devoted. Like Dex, she spends much of her time with Sheppard, and she has a kid, so she could be expected not to notice a grunt like him, but she takes the time to meet the new arrivals, learn names. He likes the way she says 'Thomas Wright'. She doesn't make it sound like 'Thomas, right?'
"It's Tom, ma'am."
She smiles. "Tom. And you must call me Teyla." Tom blushes. He keeps calling her 'ma'am'.
Despite the training, he doesn't get sent offworld. His first three months in Atlantis, he's on corridors. Corridors and lab detail.
Lab detail, he's informed quite seriously, is hell. He doesn't get this the first couple of times. Dr Z's a good guy, never makes them carry more random Ancient technology than is reasonable. He's mostly assigned there alongside Collins, who's found a fellow Brit in the science team and talks at length about obscure British ales.
It's boring, sure, but nobody dies, and mostly the scientists just ignore him.
He doesn't realise that this is because Sheppard's team is offworld.
~
McKay's been cursing over this - thing - Ancient device all morning. Happily, this means he ignores Tom and Collins. Tom takes advantage of this to edge away, but Collins chases danger, watching McKay's increasing frustration with amusement.
McKay breaks off abruptly, snapping into his radio. "Sheppard!"
Tom can hear the Colonel's unhurried reply: "Busy, McKay."
"Nonsense. Get down here. Apparently this godforsaken device needs your superior gene." McKay put the full force of his scorn behind 'superior'.
"You have Wright."
"Of course I have the right, I'm the damn CSO. Get down here."
"I said 'Wright'. The marine. He has a natural gene."
"The beer guy?" says McKay, scowling at Collins.
Collins shakes his head. "I'm Collins, he's Wright," he says. "I don't have the gene."
"Then what do I need- Sheppard, why are you sending me useless Marines?"
Sheppard sounds like he's trying not to laugh. "You get one to turn it on, one to blow it up when it goes horribly wrong."
"Oh."
"Sheppard out," says the Colonel with finality.
"But-" McKay huffs, then turns his scowl on Tom. "Fine. Come on then."
Tom approaches warily. "Uh, what-"
"Oh, great. You may be Wright, but you're not all there, are you? Just pick it up and think 'on' at it."
"Oh-kay." It doesn't turn on when he picks it up. At McKay's enthusiastic gesturing, he thinks 'On'-
"Stop! He didn't mean literally blow it up-"
"Sounded like that to me." Tom sniggers at that, and Collins is suddenly at his side. "Hey, pal. You okay?"
Tom's not sure.
"What did you do?" McKay's loud.
He just thought- "On. On?" He winces. "Maybe off?"
"Take it easy, Tommy." Collins' hand is heavy on his shoulder.
"Think I need to sit down."
"Y'are sitting down, pal."
"Oh. Lie down?"
"Okay, pal."
"Okay."
Collins moves away. "Where's that fucking med team?"
"'M okay."
"Sure, pal. You're gonnae be fine."
~
They also make him fly. He's a marine, but the SGC doesn't care. He's got the gene, so he has to train as a reserve pilot for the puddlejumpers.
His flying instructor is a USAF pilot, Captain Rodriguez, and she grins as he sits in the pilot chair. "Don't worry, you'll love it."
"Yessir."
She shows him how to hold the controls, half-remembered from his training sessions at the SGC, and suddenly the whole front of the puddlejumper lights up. "Oh yeah, you've a strong expression, I remember."
"Strong expression?"
"A strong expression of the ATA gene. Like Sheppard. The jumpers are his babies. Or possibly he's their's. They're pretty old."
"Oh."
"Yeah, oh. Don't worry, they're solid. Okay, why don't you try thinking 'up'." There's a whirr, and then a thunk. "Down! down!"
They settle with a crunch.
As she pulls herself back into her chair, Rodriguez says: "Oh-kay. Let's try that a bit slower. They're not that solid." She must see something in his expression, however hard he's trying to keep calm, because she says: "Hey, relax, kid. You'll do fine. It just takes a little getting used to, that's all."
~
And it would be fine, he'd take the time to fit in, keep his head down or up as the situation called for, learn to relax when he stepped through the gate, he'd even be happy learning to fly - if it wasn't for the life-sucking alien vampires.
The Wraith. Christ, he can't take the Wraith.
"Bloody hell," mutters Collins beside him, but at least he fires. He fires his careful three second bursts, and the Wraith doesn't even pause.
But Collins keeps firing, and just as Tom thinks the Wraith will reach them, it staggers, falls at Collins' feet. Collins fires a round into its head. "Bloody cocksucking hell."
Tom can hear more approaching.
Collins tugs him away. "C'mon, lad, got tae keep moving."
~
He concentrates on not shaking, and stares at the full clip in his hand. The Marines around him are raucous, post-battle adrenalin making them loud.
"So, that's the Wraith, then?" Collins is sitting across the room from Tom.
"Yeah." Sergeant Johnson, one of the old guard, answers.
"Hm." Collins assumes a mock-thoughtful face. "I'd give them a seven. Maybe. Think I'm being generous, mind. The goth thing isnae working in their favour."
The sergeant laughs. "Wait till you get on a Hive ship, buddy, face up to a Queen. Freaky bitches get into your head."
"Yeah? Nice." Collins catches Tom watching him, and Tom looks away, his hand tightening on the clip. Collins continues. "First time I saw a Goa'uld - campest fucker you ever saw. Eyeliner, gold tiara, the works - I still pissed myself."
Tom looks back up. Collins is smirking, as ever. The sergeant nods. "Yeah, you never forget your first."
There's a murmur of agreement, and the others start to chip in.
"Nothing like firing fifty rounds into something that just grins like you're giving it a massage-"
"Maybe. Goa'uld, though, parasites? There's some hardcore 'It could be you' shit right there."
"Buddy of mine got snaked in '02. That's fucked up, seeing your mate turn round with glowing eyes."
"Replicators."
"Yeah, T-1000 fuckers-"
"Naw, those little skittering bastards, ate everything in their path-"
"Unas. Even Lorne pissed himself at them."
"Major Lorne?"
"Yeah. Anyway, we're surrounded by these things, and Dr Jackson's waving at them, trying to play charades with the fuckers."
"First word, two syllables..."
"...sounds like, 'Eat me'."
"No wonder the guy's died so often."
"Kolya."
"Mother-fucker."
"Fucking Genii."
"At least you can understand 'em."
"Yeah, thank fuck for the Ancients."
"Don't let Sheppard hear you say that."
"Never been so scared as in Al- Al- fuck knows what it was called, this fucking raghead screaming at me at a checkpoint. Nearly shot him, only the translator pops up and tells me he's trying to sell me a fucking tv. Never lived that down."
" 'Elmand Province." Another of the Brits, his accent so thick Tom can hardly understand him. "Twenny mile aht a' Gereshk.
"Terries set up IEDs every hundred fuckin' yards. Gets so you can't look at a scrap of rubbish without twitching.
"That was it for me." They all nod.
Johnson speaks again. "First time I saw the SGC, I thought -'Man, I've been on the wrong fucking detail.' Shoulda known better..."
There's a pause, and then Diaz says: "My ex's mother." They all laugh. "As wide as she was tall, and she was not a short woman. I did not know what I was getting into."
The marines start to break into smaller groups, some heading for their quarters, others to the mess. Collins bumps his shoulder in passing. "C'mon, Tommy-boy. You'll miss out on this week's random Pegasus food-stuff."
Tom sets down the clip, and feels his hand steadying. "I'll be right there."
Continued in The Boy
I was trying to work out what time it would be in Colorado and in the middle of the Pacific, and I googled upon the blog of a couple who posted images from their 'Pacific Puddle Jump'. Instead of sneering at the idle rich in their yacht, I geeked out a little, and snagged this photo of a Pacific sunset, because it's exactly the view I imagined from the city...
"No, se on erilainen." - "Well, that's different." From nicetranslator.com and wiktionary.org, no guarantees as to accuracy. I'm getting addicted to using languages I don't understand - Czech, Suomi, English...
Rating: R (for language, because there are Marines...), gen
Character: OC
Disclaimer: The context isn't mine (the main character is), no harm meant.
Summary: This is not his daddy's momma's Marine Corps.
A/N: This is kind of the less-silly version of Paradigm Shift: Served Cold, but it's also the start of a series based around an OC team of newcomers to Atlantis that should eventually swing round to connect with the story I just posted on sga_flashfic , The City is an Island, because I'm incapable of writing things that are self-contained. Among other things.
Thomas Wright, USMC
He's a freak. The doctors don't put it like that, but that's what they mean.
The first thing he knows about it is when they're all pulled in for random drug testing. He kind of thinks they're overdoing it. It's not exactly random if everybody's being tested, is it? By the time they're half-way through, everybody knows, and they've more than enough time to get straight.
Either way, he's not worried. He's never taken anything stronger than vodka, and he hasn't even drunk anything for weeks because his stomach is blown.
Then he's called back in.
"You're not in trouble," says the doctor, and Tom tries to stand even straighter.
There's three of them. Reynolds is a bit of a flake, but Sergeant Castle's as straight as they come, so maybe he isn't so badly off.
They wait, and wait, and finally a couple of Air Force officers turn up. They confer with the doctor, who protests a few times before stalking out with a sullen expression. The officers wait until he's gone, then turn to the three Marines.
"Sit down," says one, a Major. He looks, and sounds, like he's never been in a war zone before.
"Sir, permission to speak freely, sir?"
"Go ahead, Sergeant."
"What the hell's this about, sir?"
The Major smiles, all teeth and no warmth. "The three of you have a rare genetic trait that could be of great use to your country."
The other officer, a Captain, holds out papers to each of them. "Non-disclosure form. You'll have to sign this before we continue."
"Experiments?" The sergeant hasn't picked up the pen in front of him. "Sir."
The Major looks shocked. Tom's relieved to see it looks more genuine than his smile. "No. Good God, no."
Sergeant Castle watches him for a moment, then reads the form carefully. Finally, he signs it, pushing the sheet across the table to the Major. Reynolds and Tom follow his lead.
The Major takes something from a pocket and throws it across the table to Castle. As he catches it, the object lights up. The Major nods. "Now Reynolds."
Castle passes it to Reynolds. It flickers, but stays alight. "And Wright." Reynolds sets the thing on the table, and it goes dark.
When Tom picks it up, it glows bright.
~
They've barely been given time to breathe since leaving Afghanistan. He's never had so many needles stuck in him. Never had so much training in such a short space of time, even if a lot of it's lectures on "Working with Civilians" (the SGC vets call this "Don't Piss Off McKay") and "ATA Protocol" ("What not to touch in the Pegasus Galaxy") and what the schedule calls "Unanticipated First Contacts" ("The Sex Ritual and You" - He's pretty sure they're kidding. Pretty sure, but not certain.)
But now they're waiting. They've been ready to transfer to the city since 0600, been kicking their heels since 0630, and the General Hammond has been about one hour from readiness for the past 5 hours.
So now he has time to freak out.
Now he has time to wonder why he said yes. (He said yes, and hadn't even hesitated, and that was before they started the injections). Now he has time to think about travelling to another galaxy. (In a flying city. He'd laughed, and they'd just looked at him). Now he has time to think about the Wraith. (Life-sucking alien vampires that everyone assures him they have on the run, but he's seen the numbers-)
"Hey, you okay?"
He looks up to see Collins smirking at him, and nods. Collins snorts. "Yeah, I know the feeling."
He'd been getting a little tired (who is he kidding - he'd been getting a little terrified) of the blank expression everyone got when they heard that he's had little more than the most basic SERE training and all of three months combat experience. It was quickly followed by sympathy or hearty reassurances that Atlantis would be a cakewalk. The officers tended to walk away looking pensive and taking little notes.
Collins had just laughed at him. "Welcome to the SGC, pal."
Collins is a combat and an SGC veteran, a lifer, although he's not been to Atlantis. "Heard the stories, but," he said, darkly, but then grinned.
Now Collins is surveying the slumping ranks of Atlantis-bound military with a unimpressed expression - twenty Marines, about half of them new to the SGC, the last of the full platoon joining the expedition; five Airmen and three USAF Lieutenants, a dozen Finns whose rank Tom has never determined (and now they're in the same stark black Atlantis uniform as everyone else, and he probably never will) and another six Brits, assigned by the BSEF to the SGC and now to the AEMC (despite the protests of the IOA, and he thought the Corps liked its acronyms).
The uniforms threw him, as well. But even when they all look the same, each group is carefully seperate, and by more than the flag patches that denote country - the SGC veterans apart from the newcomers, the officers seperate from enlisted, Marine Corps from Air Force. Only Collins has bucked the trend, wandering over to Tom and ignoring the little huddle of Brits.
Collins looks on the verge of saying something damning in earshot of the harassed USAF Major who's supposed to be getting them to Atlantis, when the officer's radio buzzes.
"Finally," mutters the Major. "Alright, stand by, they're ready for you." He's about to say something else when there's a low hum, and the SGC disappears.
Tom's barely on his feet when it happens, and he staggers, Collins catching his elbow. He turns to thank him, but Collins isn't looking at him. Tom follows his gaze, and the words vanish.
They're in the gate room of Atlantis.
It was nearly midday in Colorado - out here in the middle of the Pacific the sun is still rising, and light floods into the gate room from the high windows behind the gate. The new arrivals are packed into the space before the gate, elbow to elbow, and no-one moves, each face turned to the light. In place of the grey concrete of the SGC, here is blue and purple, and shimmering gold, warm and cool together.
He hardly dares breathe, afraid the light will dim, the colours fade. Afraid he will stumble again.
No-one moves.
"No," says one of the Finns, softly. "Se on erilainen."
Tom's snapped out of his daze by a sharp voice that yells down from the control room. "Get them the hell out of here, will you? Bloody SGC has to leave everything to the last - yes, thank you Sam, we've got them, goodbye, we're leaving now -"
The floor starts to shake.
~
Colonel Sheppard both is and isn't what he expects. Not that the crazy stories build up a believable picture. The slouch he's heard about (he's crossed paths with some of the female Marines), but Tom doesn't expect Sheppard to look so startled when he stands to attention as the Colonel passes. Then again he doesn't expect Sheppard to take such care with settling the new contingent into Atlantis. He talks as much (which isn't very) about the veterans helping the newcomers adjust as he does about the new arrivals respecting the galaxy they've just travelled to. And they listen, which is just weird.
He's not surprised that the bulk of the assignments are made by Major Lorne. Lorne's a complete contrast to Sheppard, the kind of man Tom would have expected to see in the Air Force. But he too looks bemused by Tom's stance.
"We're a small base, and the ratio of officers to enlisted men is high. We don't -" He pauses. "It's more important to be ready than to be correct. Keep it for when you really need it."
"Sir, yessir."
"Think of it as - three seconds to salute is three seconds for the Wraith to reach you." Lorne's expression is serious.
"Sir, yessir. No saluting the Wraith, sir."
Major Lorne laughs. "Okay, Wright. Dismissed. Oh, and you're in line for training from tomorrow."
He thinks Ronon Dex is Sheppard's pet wild man, right up until he gets laid out in one move. That isn't just brute force. Tom's never been much for martial arts - he's a boxer, and never went for the flashier forms - but he knows technique.
Given what he knows of the Wraith, he's starting to see the benefit of keeping them further away than arm's length.
It turns out that facing Dex in the sparring room is pretty much trial by fire. After that first, brief fight, the training is taken over by a handful of their Athosian allies, at least until he learns more of the Pegasean fighting styles.
He doesn't have a problem with women in the military. His mother was, for one. Teyla Emmagen isn't exactly military, but the other Marines paint her as this warrior princess. He doesn't expect her to be so tiny.
She is gracious, though, and he can see why the guys are devoted. Like Dex, she spends much of her time with Sheppard, and she has a kid, so she could be expected not to notice a grunt like him, but she takes the time to meet the new arrivals, learn names. He likes the way she says 'Thomas Wright'. She doesn't make it sound like 'Thomas, right?'
"It's Tom, ma'am."
She smiles. "Tom. And you must call me Teyla." Tom blushes. He keeps calling her 'ma'am'.
Despite the training, he doesn't get sent offworld. His first three months in Atlantis, he's on corridors. Corridors and lab detail.
Lab detail, he's informed quite seriously, is hell. He doesn't get this the first couple of times. Dr Z's a good guy, never makes them carry more random Ancient technology than is reasonable. He's mostly assigned there alongside Collins, who's found a fellow Brit in the science team and talks at length about obscure British ales.
It's boring, sure, but nobody dies, and mostly the scientists just ignore him.
He doesn't realise that this is because Sheppard's team is offworld.
~
McKay's been cursing over this - thing - Ancient device all morning. Happily, this means he ignores Tom and Collins. Tom takes advantage of this to edge away, but Collins chases danger, watching McKay's increasing frustration with amusement.
McKay breaks off abruptly, snapping into his radio. "Sheppard!"
Tom can hear the Colonel's unhurried reply: "Busy, McKay."
"Nonsense. Get down here. Apparently this godforsaken device needs your superior gene." McKay put the full force of his scorn behind 'superior'.
"You have Wright."
"Of course I have the right, I'm the damn CSO. Get down here."
"I said 'Wright'. The marine. He has a natural gene."
"The beer guy?" says McKay, scowling at Collins.
Collins shakes his head. "I'm Collins, he's Wright," he says. "I don't have the gene."
"Then what do I need- Sheppard, why are you sending me useless Marines?"
Sheppard sounds like he's trying not to laugh. "You get one to turn it on, one to blow it up when it goes horribly wrong."
"Oh."
"Sheppard out," says the Colonel with finality.
"But-" McKay huffs, then turns his scowl on Tom. "Fine. Come on then."
Tom approaches warily. "Uh, what-"
"Oh, great. You may be Wright, but you're not all there, are you? Just pick it up and think 'on' at it."
"Oh-kay." It doesn't turn on when he picks it up. At McKay's enthusiastic gesturing, he thinks 'On'-
"Stop! He didn't mean literally blow it up-"
"Sounded like that to me." Tom sniggers at that, and Collins is suddenly at his side. "Hey, pal. You okay?"
Tom's not sure.
"What did you do?" McKay's loud.
He just thought- "On. On?" He winces. "Maybe off?"
"Take it easy, Tommy." Collins' hand is heavy on his shoulder.
"Think I need to sit down."
"Y'are sitting down, pal."
"Oh. Lie down?"
"Okay, pal."
"Okay."
Collins moves away. "Where's that fucking med team?"
"'M okay."
"Sure, pal. You're gonnae be fine."
~
They also make him fly. He's a marine, but the SGC doesn't care. He's got the gene, so he has to train as a reserve pilot for the puddlejumpers.
His flying instructor is a USAF pilot, Captain Rodriguez, and she grins as he sits in the pilot chair. "Don't worry, you'll love it."
"Yessir."
She shows him how to hold the controls, half-remembered from his training sessions at the SGC, and suddenly the whole front of the puddlejumper lights up. "Oh yeah, you've a strong expression, I remember."
"Strong expression?"
"A strong expression of the ATA gene. Like Sheppard. The jumpers are his babies. Or possibly he's their's. They're pretty old."
"Oh."
"Yeah, oh. Don't worry, they're solid. Okay, why don't you try thinking 'up'." There's a whirr, and then a thunk. "Down! down!"
They settle with a crunch.
As she pulls herself back into her chair, Rodriguez says: "Oh-kay. Let's try that a bit slower. They're not that solid." She must see something in his expression, however hard he's trying to keep calm, because she says: "Hey, relax, kid. You'll do fine. It just takes a little getting used to, that's all."
~
And it would be fine, he'd take the time to fit in, keep his head down or up as the situation called for, learn to relax when he stepped through the gate, he'd even be happy learning to fly - if it wasn't for the life-sucking alien vampires.
The Wraith. Christ, he can't take the Wraith.
"Bloody hell," mutters Collins beside him, but at least he fires. He fires his careful three second bursts, and the Wraith doesn't even pause.
But Collins keeps firing, and just as Tom thinks the Wraith will reach them, it staggers, falls at Collins' feet. Collins fires a round into its head. "Bloody cocksucking hell."
Tom can hear more approaching.
Collins tugs him away. "C'mon, lad, got tae keep moving."
~
He concentrates on not shaking, and stares at the full clip in his hand. The Marines around him are raucous, post-battle adrenalin making them loud.
"So, that's the Wraith, then?" Collins is sitting across the room from Tom.
"Yeah." Sergeant Johnson, one of the old guard, answers.
"Hm." Collins assumes a mock-thoughtful face. "I'd give them a seven. Maybe. Think I'm being generous, mind. The goth thing isnae working in their favour."
The sergeant laughs. "Wait till you get on a Hive ship, buddy, face up to a Queen. Freaky bitches get into your head."
"Yeah? Nice." Collins catches Tom watching him, and Tom looks away, his hand tightening on the clip. Collins continues. "First time I saw a Goa'uld - campest fucker you ever saw. Eyeliner, gold tiara, the works - I still pissed myself."
Tom looks back up. Collins is smirking, as ever. The sergeant nods. "Yeah, you never forget your first."
There's a murmur of agreement, and the others start to chip in.
"Nothing like firing fifty rounds into something that just grins like you're giving it a massage-"
"Maybe. Goa'uld, though, parasites? There's some hardcore 'It could be you' shit right there."
"Buddy of mine got snaked in '02. That's fucked up, seeing your mate turn round with glowing eyes."
"Replicators."
"Yeah, T-1000 fuckers-"
"Naw, those little skittering bastards, ate everything in their path-"
"Unas. Even Lorne pissed himself at them."
"Major Lorne?"
"Yeah. Anyway, we're surrounded by these things, and Dr Jackson's waving at them, trying to play charades with the fuckers."
"First word, two syllables..."
"...sounds like, 'Eat me'."
"No wonder the guy's died so often."
"Kolya."
"Mother-fucker."
"Fucking Genii."
"At least you can understand 'em."
"Yeah, thank fuck for the Ancients."
"Don't let Sheppard hear you say that."
"Never been so scared as in Al- Al- fuck knows what it was called, this fucking raghead screaming at me at a checkpoint. Nearly shot him, only the translator pops up and tells me he's trying to sell me a fucking tv. Never lived that down."
" 'Elmand Province." Another of the Brits, his accent so thick Tom can hardly understand him. "Twenny mile aht a' Gereshk.
"Terries set up IEDs every hundred fuckin' yards. Gets so you can't look at a scrap of rubbish without twitching.
"That was it for me." They all nod.
Johnson speaks again. "First time I saw the SGC, I thought -'Man, I've been on the wrong fucking detail.' Shoulda known better..."
There's a pause, and then Diaz says: "My ex's mother." They all laugh. "As wide as she was tall, and she was not a short woman. I did not know what I was getting into."
The marines start to break into smaller groups, some heading for their quarters, others to the mess. Collins bumps his shoulder in passing. "C'mon, Tommy-boy. You'll miss out on this week's random Pegasus food-stuff."
Tom sets down the clip, and feels his hand steadying. "I'll be right there."
Continued in The Boy
I was trying to work out what time it would be in Colorado and in the middle of the Pacific, and I googled upon the blog of a couple who posted images from their 'Pacific Puddle Jump'. Instead of sneering at the idle rich in their yacht, I geeked out a little, and snagged this photo of a Pacific sunset, because it's exactly the view I imagined from the city...
"No, se on erilainen." - "Well, that's different." From nicetranslator.com and wiktionary.org, no guarantees as to accuracy. I'm getting addicted to using languages I don't understand - Czech, Suomi, English...