I've got a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore.
He’s standing there before the ‘gate, waiting for the other shoe to drop (because you can never trust a bad guy, much less damn snake), and right on cue, the ground starts to tremble. That’s the first sign. It’s not so obvious at first, and Jack thinks he might just be imagining it, but as he turns around, dust starts falling from the ceiling and
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Why is it that Wanderers seem to show up around him? It really is bullshit. He doesn't even like the fuckers. But no, he'll be a good Francis and let the bastards -- whatever.
"You just fell through a rift," he says, leaning against a telephone pole. "You just fell through a rift into Chicago, Illinois, where people want to kill you for existing, and everyone you know and love is gone. Oh, and there's no way back."
What Francis lacks in tact, he makes up for in honesty!
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After a quick glance around, Jack approaches him warily. “That’s impossible,” he says. He isn’t elaborating, but yes, he’s pouring on the skepticism as thick as he can, even though he knows from his surroundings that it’s entirely possible this is Chicago. He hasn’t been to the city in ages, but he’s retained enough memory of the place to be able to jigsaw the pieces together. “This is either a dream, or I’m hallucinating.” And any second now, he’s going to wake up with Daniel standing by his bedside doing a little glowing thing, and it’ll all be fine.
... any second now.
Okay, maybe not. Maybe he is going nuts. Which is not fine at all.
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He stares at the gun, tilting his head to the side slightly. "Also, if you want to shoot me, that's also fine. It's not like I haven't gotten replacements of almost every limb so far."
Francis wasn't the most cautious man in the war. If he wasn't so damn useful, the probably would have stopped replacing his limbs, too. Being useful has its merits.
"But it's up to you."
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He’s still not letting his guard down, though, because he’s not sure what to believe right now. Everything feels real, down to the godawful Chicago weather he remembers - what is it, summer right now? - but he’s been the victim of enough weird virtual reality machines and illusions to know that just because something feels real doesn’t mean it is.
The next part of the man’s speech registers. “Are you telling me you’re not human?” he says. His mind is already doing calculations. Don't rule anything out at the moment.
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But they've been itching. He's wanted to let them out for so long, but he's been so good. So good. A large pair of redfooted falcon wings sprout from his back.
"Nah, I'm an angel," he says, wondering if the guy's gonna pass out now. Because that would be pretty funny. "But that has nothing to do with losing limbs. That has a lot more to do with reconstructive surgery in the 37th century."
Not that they're in the 37th now, but he does know how to take care of his limbs if they malfunction.
"Oh, and the name's Francis. Francis Barnam. And they are the Chicago Liberation Force. Nasty little Fellers. Don't like folks like you who fall through the Rift. You could say they're a bit racist."
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The P-90 flies straight up again as Jack involuntarily takes a step back. “Whoa,” he says. (Unfortunately, for Francis, Jack doesn’t pass out. He’s just very, very surprised.) Wings. The guy has wings. Just when he thinks this can’t get any weirder.
The gun’s not gonna come down anytime soon too, not if Jack can help it. “An angel,” he says. “Sorry, you’re not exactly the first thing to come to mind when someone says ‘angel.’ Don’t you guys have - ?” He gestures towards the top of Francis’s head.
And, well, it’s a good thing Francis offered that tidbit about reconstructive surgery. Otherwise Jack might’ve just shot him just to see if he can die. “Yeah, nice to meet you,” he says. “Forgive me if I don’t shake your hand.” This talk of the 37th century is making his head hurt even more (Christ), and then:
“Folks like me,” he says. “Okay, wise guy, what do you they have against people who come through?”
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It takes Francis a good long moment to realize what Jack means when he's gesturing to the top of his head. It's been a long time since he's thought about religion, even if he professes to be an Irish Catholic. Barnams tend to be pretty bad Catholics.
"We're not exactly the servants of God," he says. "I still have to go to confession, whenever I want to speak to the guy. Not even sure if he exists, really." Most of the time, he's pretty sure he doesn't exist. Going to confession will be interesting. Over 100 years since his last confession. He's sure the priests in Chicago have heard worse. He's gonna have a lot of Hail Marys considering all the murdering he's been doing. Even if it's just murder. "So no halos ( ... )
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As the guy - Francis - goes on about how he doesn’t really know why people are out to kill him (great, nice to know he knows just as much as Jack does), Jack peers around, glances over his shoulder, just to see if anyone else is watching. A guy pulling a gun on another guy (with wings) is sure to raise a few eyebrows around here, and he’s not out to cause trouble. At least, not yet. Getting his bearings is the most important thing he can do at the moment; he can worry about making a fuss later ( ... )
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And then there's the introduction. Francis likes this guy. He's not too much of an idiot, it seems. Like most of the people here.
"Private Francis Barnam, Fuchizaki-Barnam Militia," he says. "Although, I guess it's not Private anymore, considering the militia won't exist for another 1000 years or so." If it'll exist at all. There were a lot of differences between where he was and where he is now. But that's really not something he needs to dwell on. "And nope, no halos or pitchforks. But they bleed black, and can get into your head. And it's my Calling to purge the world of 'em. Not that I mind, honestly."
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The rest of the pieces aren’t too hard to fit together from what Francis is telling him. Guy’s a soldier-angel, fighting a war against demons. Simple. Jack likes simple. Makes everything cleaner to deal with. Though, from experience, things only appear simple right before they get a whole lot more complicated, but he’s just going to go ahead and revel in the clear delineation of sides right now.
“A war, huh?” he says. “So you have the angels and demons, and what? You fight the war here, in Chicago? Or is it something that happens on a higher plane of existence or something out the wazoo like that?” And is that what caused him to fall through the rift the guy had been talking about? It's certainly a possibility. He leaves that question unasked but files it in the back of his head for later investigation ( ... )
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“You fell through too, then?” Jack says, after Francis finishes. “Not exactly the impression I got from how you were talking about everyone. Thought you were from around these parts.” He catches the comment about others like him; that’s the third time Francis has mentioned them, the fourth time he’s implied their existence. “These people who come through - where are they now?” he says. Hopefully not buried in the ground, because that's just the reassurance he needs.
And then there’s the offer, and Christ, a drink sounds fantastic. “You’re paying,” he says. Jack has no money on him, after all. And he’s letting Francis lead. He doesn’t yet trust the guy as far as he can throw him - while he hasn't done anything to betray his trust, he hasn't done anything to earn it either - and there’s no way he’s turning his back on him. Kinda like Maybourne, actually, at the end. Now that’s a damn relief.
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He shrugs, walking over to his car. He's definitely sober enough to drive now, even if that's never stopped him before. There's no way he's taking the guy to one of the Wanderer bars. Too many demons, and he's already itching enough as it is. He pulls his wings back in, even if he doesn't particularly want to. He opens Shane's passenger side door for Jack, before getting in the driver's seat himself.
"I didn't find it as funny, myself," he adds, revving up the car. "I feel I should also mention that almost never happens ( ... )
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He’s trying to keep it light. It’s not that he’s panicking (not yet, at least; he’s saving the panicking for when he discovers there’s no SGC and no way home, because when you’re in over your head, always assume the worst, and take it from there), but all this talk about one-way rifts is enough to get a guy down, even if there hadn’t been some talk of war thrown in with it earlier. And not only that, but according to Francis, this place is apparently unstable enough to swallow you on an off-day if it feels like it. Great, as if he doesn’t have enough on his mind already ( ... )
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