SG-1/TSCC and SG-1/Sanctuary Ficlets: Clone!Jack hitches a ride
Fic Archiving:
A while ago
synecdochic asked: So, here's the challenge: Write JD Nielson hitching a ride with somebody. Doesn't matter when, doesn't matter how, doesn't matter crossed over with what, just JD, a vehicle, and someone giving him a ride. (JD Nielson is the name for Jack O'Neill's de-aged clone from "Fragile Balance" in her "Broken Wings" story). I...got inspired. No real spoilers in either one.
Stargate SG-1/Terminator: Sarah Connor Chronicles (Clone!Jack O'Neill and John Connor) (947 words) (originally here)
The last trucker dropped him off at a gas station in the middle of nowhere between Las Vegas and Los Angeles and at least the attendant doesn't seem to care when he hangs around for half the day, making liberal use of the water fountain. Day's not as hot as it could be, but it's still a nasty desert.
Sometime mid-afternoon a black pick-up pulls up. It's dusty and dinged but JD can hear the engine purr. It's a vehicle owned by someone who knows how to take care of it. Owned by someone who depends on it running.
JD watches through shimmers of heat as the door opens and someone jumps out, sees scuffed-up combat boots hit the ground and walk around the back, kicking a tire, before their owner comes around to where JD can see him. If that kid is officially old enough to drive JD will eat his hat. But then, he doesn't really have ground to stand on there.
The kid walks by where he's sitting in the minimal shade by the door and his only movement may be a toss of his head to get sweaty bangs out of his face, but JD knows he's being sized up and if he asked the kid could describe him down to the detail. He watches in the reflection of the battered soda machine as the kid pulls a wad of $20s from his pocket to pay for a bag of pretzels and a tank of gas.
When the kid steps out again, JD asks, "Where you heading?" He doesn't try to make eye contact.
The kid looks at him, but his eyes slip to the basset hound sleeping under the faded plastic chair ten feet away before he responds. "L.A."
"Got room for a passenger?" JD nods to the cab of the truck.
The kid shrugs, nods, and heads for the truck again. JD gives him five feet of clearance before following. As he opens the passenger door the kid is swinging a battered navy backpack onto the bench seat in the back. The area at JD's feet is littered with empty chip bags and soda cans, but there's also a cell phone SIMM card and well-used soldering iron. He's doesn't open the glove compartment to find the handgun he's sure is stashed inside.
"Where you going?" the kid says, turning the key and shifting into gear in a practiced movement.
"Wherever I can get to," JD tells him. There's a part of him that wants to ask the kid a dozen questions, starting with why someone on the short end of sixteen is moving like he's spent decades in special forces. But he doesn't want to answer the same questions. "Name's JD."
"John." It's the last word for fifty miles.
When they hit the beginning of the mountains that separate L.A. from miles of barren sand, John asks, "you hungry?" before handing JD the rest of his gas station pretzels. JD eats them, then bends down slowly -- he's pretty sure he doesn't want to know what'll happen if it looks like he's going for the glove compartment -- to pick up something that catches his eye on the floor, half hidden by a Snickers wrapper.
It's a piece of circuitboard unlike any he's seen -- vaguely cylindrical and heavy in the palm of his hand. It looks like it's meant to be inserted into something, complete with a screw on top for easy removal. The whole thing looks fried. Out of the corner of his eye he can see John watching him as he holds it up to the light. "Some pretty serious damage," he says.
"Keeps me from getting data off it," John mutters. His knuckles whiten a bit where he's holding the wheel.
JD looks at him full-on now. He's got scars and a wary alertness and a way of holding himself that makes JD think the muscles and reflexes aren't from high school sports. He can't say he's surprised when the truck slows down. "Did he send you?" John asks.
JD skips right past asking who "he" is. "Been a while since anybody sent me anywhere," he answers. He counts heartbeats through the long silence until the truck speeds up again.
When they come over the pass and L.A. stretches in every direction as far as the smog will let them see, John's cell phone rings. "17 September," he says into the mouthpiece, then, "hey mom." The conversation is short and clipped and JD looks out the window and pretends not to overhear all of it. John turns to him after he hangs up. "My uncle and sister are meeting me in Pasadena. Need to let you off before that. She...wouldn't like you."
JD doesn't ask whether John means his mother or his sister, and doesn't ask why he should be concerned about either woman. John's still giving him the soldier-who's-seen-too-much vibe and he must have picked that up somewhere. "Anywhere will be fine."
Anywhere turns out to be a donut stand on Route 66. JD gets out of the car, thinks a minute, then hands over a card with his cell number. "Thanks," he says. "You need anything, call, John..."
John takes the card, looks at JD, looks down, then says, "Baum. John Baum," and reaches to pull the door closed. JD knows he'll never call.
A year later he's back in Southern California, staying in cheap motel north of L.A., when the static-filled tv interrupts a Gilligan's Island rerun with a police report. JD instantly recognizes the face in the mug shot plastered on the screen, even though John's hair is now military-short and it looks like his nose was broken in the last year. The ticker tape at the bottom says "John Connor."
Stargate SG-1/Sanctuary (Clone!Jack O'Neill and Ashley Magnus) (956 words) (originally here)
It's been drizzling nonstop since he got to this fucking town three days ago. He's beginning to miss Vancouver. At least there he didn't have puddles in his damn shoes. He's partway to the abandoned flat he's squatting with a couple of teenagers who ran from somewhere in the middle of nowhere, Nebraska, when the motorcycle screeches to a halt to his left.
It really isn't worth yelling at the driver for splashing him, given that he is already soaked to the skin, but he turns anyway, sarcastic retort halfway out his mouth, when he sees her take off her helmet, swing wet blonde hair out of her face, and flash him a devil-may-care-grin. "Need a ride?" she asks, patting the seat behind her. "Won't be much dryer, but it'll be faster. And more fun."
The chick's in head-to-toe black leather and there's something about her that makes him think, just a little, of Carter, though he'd be damned if he could say what it is. He shifts his backpack so it rests on both shoulders and climbs up behind her. She's radiating almost as much heat as he is and there's water steaming off the leather in front of his face.
"Where to?" she asks, putting her helmet back on but leaving the visor up.
"Other side of the river," he says. "Fourth and Archer. Closest river crossing is on twelfth."
She laughs. "Haven't been in New City long, have you? You might wanna hang on." Before he can respond she slams her visor down, guns the engine, and kicks off. She drives like the speed limit is a mild suggestion and after one turn where the concrete is a mere handful of inches from his knee, he rests his hands on her hips, mindful of the sidearm strapped to her thigh and careful not to grip too tight.
He tries to track the "shortcut" she takes, which seems mostly designed to release as much adrenaline as possible, rather than actually get them there any faster, but it's hard to read the street signs when it's dark, pouring rain, and he's moving at approximately the speed of sound. Plus he's enjoying it a bit too much (even if his hands are itching to be the one driving).
When they reach the river, at the "Bridge Out" sign that blocks third street, she goes around the sign without slowing, and then speeds up to jump the four foot gap halfway across the river. They're four blocks from Archer when he hears her shout, "Oh, shit!" and she brakes hard, turns left, and steers them into an alley.
There's a dancing shadow about ten yards from where she screeches to a halt before diving from the bike to the meager shelter of a collapsing pile of cardboard boxes. He's right behind her before he even realizes his reflexes have kicked in.
"You know how to use this?" she asks, handing back something gun-like without tearing her eyes from the shadows ahead.
The taser in his hand isn't as comfortable as a P-90 would be, but he knows from weapons. "Yeah," he says. "What is it?"
"Chameleon," she mutters. "Thought I bagged the last one months ago, but Henry's been seeing reports of sightings around here for weeks." A flash of lightning illuminates a part of the brick wall that doesn't look quite right and there's an inhuman scream as part of the wall leaps off, shifting to mimic the shiny darkness of the wet pavement. "Over there," she shouts, sending him to the other side of the alley with a textbook military hand signal. "He knows we've got him boxed in."
JD scans the alley, eyes straining for any changes in the shadows, but by the time he sees it the creature is charging for the entrance of the alley. The chick takes a flying leap and grabs onto what's either a tail or a leg, rolling as she hits the ground. JD dives at it from behind, knocking the creature over but it rolls him and there's hot breath and teeth way too close to his face. He grabs its jaw, shoving its head back, and the thing suddenly convulses and arches and JD looks up to see the girl standing over him, taser in hand.
When it goes limp he roles out from under it. "What is that thing?" he asks again.
"I told you. Chameleon," she says before reaching for her cell phone. "Hey, Henry, I got it. Yeah, alley off Mill Street. Can you bring the van before it wakes up? Mom's going to be excited to study a live one."
"Hey, where you going?" her voice calls as he's partway down the alley, backpack slung over one shoulder. His place is only a few blocks away now.
"Home," he shouts back.
"You were pretty good there, distracting it so I could get a clean shot," she calls. "You've seen abnormals before, haven't you?"
He stops, turns back. He's certainly seen plenty of things most people wouldn't consider normal. "You could say that."
"Looking for a job?" He considers a minute, then shakes his head. The line of work she seems to be in is looks too much like the old life he's trying to get away from. She doesn't look surprised. "You got a name then?"
"JD."
"Ashley," she says. "Look, at least let me buy you a drink. Just hold on until Henry gets here."
Henry turns out to be a geeky, slightly jumpy guy, who talks the entire time they load the "chameleon" into a van that looks fortified enough to contain an enraged Unas. And it turns out Ashley knows the exact right kind of bars where nobody asks any questions. Maybe he'll stay here a little bit longer.
This entry was originally posted at dreamwidth
. Replies are welcome on either post.
A while ago
synecdochic asked: So, here's the challenge: Write JD Nielson hitching a ride with somebody. Doesn't matter when, doesn't matter how, doesn't matter crossed over with what, just JD, a vehicle, and someone giving him a ride. (JD Nielson is the name for Jack O'Neill's de-aged clone from "Fragile Balance" in her "Broken Wings" story). I...got inspired. No real spoilers in either one.
Stargate SG-1/Terminator: Sarah Connor Chronicles (Clone!Jack O'Neill and John Connor) (947 words) (originally here)
The last trucker dropped him off at a gas station in the middle of nowhere between Las Vegas and Los Angeles and at least the attendant doesn't seem to care when he hangs around for half the day, making liberal use of the water fountain. Day's not as hot as it could be, but it's still a nasty desert.
Sometime mid-afternoon a black pick-up pulls up. It's dusty and dinged but JD can hear the engine purr. It's a vehicle owned by someone who knows how to take care of it. Owned by someone who depends on it running.
JD watches through shimmers of heat as the door opens and someone jumps out, sees scuffed-up combat boots hit the ground and walk around the back, kicking a tire, before their owner comes around to where JD can see him. If that kid is officially old enough to drive JD will eat his hat. But then, he doesn't really have ground to stand on there.
The kid walks by where he's sitting in the minimal shade by the door and his only movement may be a toss of his head to get sweaty bangs out of his face, but JD knows he's being sized up and if he asked the kid could describe him down to the detail. He watches in the reflection of the battered soda machine as the kid pulls a wad of $20s from his pocket to pay for a bag of pretzels and a tank of gas.
When the kid steps out again, JD asks, "Where you heading?" He doesn't try to make eye contact.
The kid looks at him, but his eyes slip to the basset hound sleeping under the faded plastic chair ten feet away before he responds. "L.A."
"Got room for a passenger?" JD nods to the cab of the truck.
The kid shrugs, nods, and heads for the truck again. JD gives him five feet of clearance before following. As he opens the passenger door the kid is swinging a battered navy backpack onto the bench seat in the back. The area at JD's feet is littered with empty chip bags and soda cans, but there's also a cell phone SIMM card and well-used soldering iron. He's doesn't open the glove compartment to find the handgun he's sure is stashed inside.
"Where you going?" the kid says, turning the key and shifting into gear in a practiced movement.
"Wherever I can get to," JD tells him. There's a part of him that wants to ask the kid a dozen questions, starting with why someone on the short end of sixteen is moving like he's spent decades in special forces. But he doesn't want to answer the same questions. "Name's JD."
"John." It's the last word for fifty miles.
When they hit the beginning of the mountains that separate L.A. from miles of barren sand, John asks, "you hungry?" before handing JD the rest of his gas station pretzels. JD eats them, then bends down slowly -- he's pretty sure he doesn't want to know what'll happen if it looks like he's going for the glove compartment -- to pick up something that catches his eye on the floor, half hidden by a Snickers wrapper.
It's a piece of circuitboard unlike any he's seen -- vaguely cylindrical and heavy in the palm of his hand. It looks like it's meant to be inserted into something, complete with a screw on top for easy removal. The whole thing looks fried. Out of the corner of his eye he can see John watching him as he holds it up to the light. "Some pretty serious damage," he says.
"Keeps me from getting data off it," John mutters. His knuckles whiten a bit where he's holding the wheel.
JD looks at him full-on now. He's got scars and a wary alertness and a way of holding himself that makes JD think the muscles and reflexes aren't from high school sports. He can't say he's surprised when the truck slows down. "Did he send you?" John asks.
JD skips right past asking who "he" is. "Been a while since anybody sent me anywhere," he answers. He counts heartbeats through the long silence until the truck speeds up again.
When they come over the pass and L.A. stretches in every direction as far as the smog will let them see, John's cell phone rings. "17 September," he says into the mouthpiece, then, "hey mom." The conversation is short and clipped and JD looks out the window and pretends not to overhear all of it. John turns to him after he hangs up. "My uncle and sister are meeting me in Pasadena. Need to let you off before that. She...wouldn't like you."
JD doesn't ask whether John means his mother or his sister, and doesn't ask why he should be concerned about either woman. John's still giving him the soldier-who's-seen-too-much vibe and he must have picked that up somewhere. "Anywhere will be fine."
Anywhere turns out to be a donut stand on Route 66. JD gets out of the car, thinks a minute, then hands over a card with his cell number. "Thanks," he says. "You need anything, call, John..."
John takes the card, looks at JD, looks down, then says, "Baum. John Baum," and reaches to pull the door closed. JD knows he'll never call.
A year later he's back in Southern California, staying in cheap motel north of L.A., when the static-filled tv interrupts a Gilligan's Island rerun with a police report. JD instantly recognizes the face in the mug shot plastered on the screen, even though John's hair is now military-short and it looks like his nose was broken in the last year. The ticker tape at the bottom says "John Connor."
Stargate SG-1/Sanctuary (Clone!Jack O'Neill and Ashley Magnus) (956 words) (originally here)
It's been drizzling nonstop since he got to this fucking town three days ago. He's beginning to miss Vancouver. At least there he didn't have puddles in his damn shoes. He's partway to the abandoned flat he's squatting with a couple of teenagers who ran from somewhere in the middle of nowhere, Nebraska, when the motorcycle screeches to a halt to his left.
It really isn't worth yelling at the driver for splashing him, given that he is already soaked to the skin, but he turns anyway, sarcastic retort halfway out his mouth, when he sees her take off her helmet, swing wet blonde hair out of her face, and flash him a devil-may-care-grin. "Need a ride?" she asks, patting the seat behind her. "Won't be much dryer, but it'll be faster. And more fun."
The chick's in head-to-toe black leather and there's something about her that makes him think, just a little, of Carter, though he'd be damned if he could say what it is. He shifts his backpack so it rests on both shoulders and climbs up behind her. She's radiating almost as much heat as he is and there's water steaming off the leather in front of his face.
"Where to?" she asks, putting her helmet back on but leaving the visor up.
"Other side of the river," he says. "Fourth and Archer. Closest river crossing is on twelfth."
She laughs. "Haven't been in New City long, have you? You might wanna hang on." Before he can respond she slams her visor down, guns the engine, and kicks off. She drives like the speed limit is a mild suggestion and after one turn where the concrete is a mere handful of inches from his knee, he rests his hands on her hips, mindful of the sidearm strapped to her thigh and careful not to grip too tight.
He tries to track the "shortcut" she takes, which seems mostly designed to release as much adrenaline as possible, rather than actually get them there any faster, but it's hard to read the street signs when it's dark, pouring rain, and he's moving at approximately the speed of sound. Plus he's enjoying it a bit too much (even if his hands are itching to be the one driving).
When they reach the river, at the "Bridge Out" sign that blocks third street, she goes around the sign without slowing, and then speeds up to jump the four foot gap halfway across the river. They're four blocks from Archer when he hears her shout, "Oh, shit!" and she brakes hard, turns left, and steers them into an alley.
There's a dancing shadow about ten yards from where she screeches to a halt before diving from the bike to the meager shelter of a collapsing pile of cardboard boxes. He's right behind her before he even realizes his reflexes have kicked in.
"You know how to use this?" she asks, handing back something gun-like without tearing her eyes from the shadows ahead.
The taser in his hand isn't as comfortable as a P-90 would be, but he knows from weapons. "Yeah," he says. "What is it?"
"Chameleon," she mutters. "Thought I bagged the last one months ago, but Henry's been seeing reports of sightings around here for weeks." A flash of lightning illuminates a part of the brick wall that doesn't look quite right and there's an inhuman scream as part of the wall leaps off, shifting to mimic the shiny darkness of the wet pavement. "Over there," she shouts, sending him to the other side of the alley with a textbook military hand signal. "He knows we've got him boxed in."
JD scans the alley, eyes straining for any changes in the shadows, but by the time he sees it the creature is charging for the entrance of the alley. The chick takes a flying leap and grabs onto what's either a tail or a leg, rolling as she hits the ground. JD dives at it from behind, knocking the creature over but it rolls him and there's hot breath and teeth way too close to his face. He grabs its jaw, shoving its head back, and the thing suddenly convulses and arches and JD looks up to see the girl standing over him, taser in hand.
When it goes limp he roles out from under it. "What is that thing?" he asks again.
"I told you. Chameleon," she says before reaching for her cell phone. "Hey, Henry, I got it. Yeah, alley off Mill Street. Can you bring the van before it wakes up? Mom's going to be excited to study a live one."
"Hey, where you going?" her voice calls as he's partway down the alley, backpack slung over one shoulder. His place is only a few blocks away now.
"Home," he shouts back.
"You were pretty good there, distracting it so I could get a clean shot," she calls. "You've seen abnormals before, haven't you?"
He stops, turns back. He's certainly seen plenty of things most people wouldn't consider normal. "You could say that."
"Looking for a job?" He considers a minute, then shakes his head. The line of work she seems to be in is looks too much like the old life he's trying to get away from. She doesn't look surprised. "You got a name then?"
"JD."
"Ashley," she says. "Look, at least let me buy you a drink. Just hold on until Henry gets here."
Henry turns out to be a geeky, slightly jumpy guy, who talks the entire time they load the "chameleon" into a van that looks fortified enough to contain an enraged Unas. And it turns out Ashley knows the exact right kind of bars where nobody asks any questions. Maybe he'll stay here a little bit longer.
This entry was originally posted at dreamwidth
. Replies are welcome on either post.