The Beatings Will Continue Until Morale Improves by Smitty (Search & Seizure Challenge)
Title: The Beatings Will Continue Until Morale Improves
Author: Smitty
Rating: Not for kids, a few scenes that are semi-explicit.
Pairing: Sheppard/McKay, Sheppard/OMC (flashback)
Excuses: None
Blame: Mostly reccea for agreeing with me that sure, I could have this done in two days and then talked to me every day for over a week to make sure I was still working on this. Also, to miss_porcupine for refusing to pity me and to kerithwyn for being available to whine to. Apparently somebody needs to explain to me -- slowly and in words of one syllable -- the definition of 'flashfic'. This came in at about 14,500 words.
Note: Part of this story is set at the US Air Force Academy and contains slang and traditions endemic to such things. A few of the more esoteric terms link to a tiny little glossary. My knowledge base is primarily the US Naval Academy so some of the terms and traditions may have been imposed on the USAFA by my own memories.
Summary: In 1988, Cadet First Class John Sheppard stole a goat. In 2005, Major Lorne steals a Cat-Thing. It turns out that stealing mascots is never as good an idea as one would think.
The Beatings Will Continue Until Morale Improves
by Smitty
Atlantis, Pegasus Galaxy, 2005
Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard hadn't been allowed to choose the men and women serving under his command. They'd been pre-selected by General Landry and Colonel Caldwell by the time he got back to Earth. He wasn't sure how he felt about leading Caldwell's troops, but one look at Major Lorne's record told him that his second-in-command was absolutely the best person for the job.
"Says here you're an Annapolis grad," he said from behind his laptop.
"Yes, sir," Lorne replied. "Class of '92."
John leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. "You were on the goat handling squad," he continued, not even trying to hide his glee.
"Yes, sir," Lorne said, still earnestly poker-faced. "Had some good times, me and Bill the Goat."
John decided that even a wickedly raised eyebrow was beneath him. It was just too easy.
"Yeah," he said instead. "You don't remember the score of the '88 game against Air Force, do you?"
Lorne's face went white, then red, then back to normal.
"Not off the top of my head, sir," he said in a voice that was ever-so-slightly choked. "Did you play?"
"No," John said, deciding right then and there that Lorne was a pretty standup guy for a ex-squid. "But I was a fan."
Atlantis, Pegasus Galaxy, 2005
When Rodney brought back a tiny cat-thing with overly large, wet eyes from MXP-253, John should have seen trouble on the horizon. It was entirely too cute to be completely innocent.
The people of MXP-253 kept the creatures as pets. The governor's little daughter handed one to Rodney with the solemn declaration that he looked like he needed a cat. 'Wassal', actually, but John was just as happy to calling it a cat, and she was right -- Rodney definitely looked like he needed a cat. Mostly it was just excuse to tease him all the way back to the stargate.
Once Beckett had cleared the animal as safe, even Elizabeth couldn't tell Rodney no. Thusly, the newly dubbed Quark settled happily in Rodney's quarters and soon became the mascot of the science team.
"I'm just worried that she'll feel pressured to live up the my memory of Jake," Rodney fretted, chopping up pilfered meat for Quark's dinner as Quark herself sat on his desk and stared adorably at John. John tried not to stare back. "Really, it's not a contest and even though Jake was clearly a superlative representation of his species, Quark is a completely unique individual and needs to establish her own identity -- "
John rolled his eyes. "I just can't believe you're not allergic to her," he said, reaching out and rubbing two fingers behind Quark's ear, over the furry head. He really was more of a dog person but the eyes were too much, even for him.
Rodney paused and that made John glance up. Rodney could turn a pause into an event. "That is kind of odd, isn't it?" he said thoughtfully. "I never had a problem with animals, though. I mean, there was this dog that I had when I was a kid. He ran away and -- well, anyway, not an allergy." He set the Petrie dish of chopped meat in front of Quark and rubbed her behind the other ear. She dodged them both and started chowing down.
"I think we've been dumped for a dish of mystery meat," John remarked.
"Ah, well, cat loyalty," Rodney said. "What's this meeting about, anyway?"
"Unit morale," John said as they left Rodney's quarters and headed for the conference room in the control tower.
"Morale?" Rodney spat out, stopping short in the middle of the hall. When John showed no sign of breaking stride, he sacrificed his Posture of Outrage and caught up. "There is nothing wrong with morale," he said. "We're on Atlantis. We have a ZedPM. There are ten thousand things going on that qualify as the culmination of someone's life work, and Elizabeth thinks we need to build morale? Is she insane?"
John shrugged. Privately, he felt the same way even though he knew some of the Marines were bored and homesick. With the Daedalus making regular runs, the new people were not quite the adventurers who had walked through the 'gate with him and Rodney and Elizabeth. Intellectually, he knew they couldn't have gone on as they were indefinitely without contact with Earth, but secretly he missed the old team and the constant hunt for a ZPM and even the adrenaline edge of the impending Wraith attack. He didn't miss regular encounters with the Wraith themselves and he didn't mind going almost six months without having to arm the self-destruct sequence or blow up a naquadah generator, but he was feeling a little aimless himself.
"Let's hear her out," he suggested to Rodney. "It could be fun."
US Air Force Academy, Colorado Springs, 1988
"Go Kaplan, go Kaplan, go Kaplan!"
"BEAT NAVY, SIR!" Cadet 4th Class Kaplan slammed his mess hall glass onto the table and jumped off his chair.
"Good job, Kaplan." Cadet 1st Class John Sheppard looked down the table at his three doolies, amused by tensely excited poker faces and stiff comportment. Kaplan was looking a little green. "Have your spare glass?" John asked a Firstie at the next table. It was summarily passed over and John slid it toward Kaplan. "Get some water," he said. "And carry on for the rest of the meal."
The doolies grinned and relaxed in their chairs. Kaplan went right for the water pitcher.
The week before one service academy played another at football was electric with bridling motivation. Nothing in Colorado Springs was as intense as Army-Navy week, John was sure, but the Air Force Academy had its ways of making its own events memorable. Mixing the contents of the condiment rack and having a doolie drink it wasn't one of John's preferred spirit activities -- entirely too likely to end in vomiting -- but one of the 2nd Class had ordered Kaplan to do a 'Beat Navy' and John was more than happy to confer the reward of being permitted to talk at tables. After all, it was quasi-burrito day and Kaplan's glass had included both picante sauce and guacamole. John made a little more of a mess with his quasi-burrito -- it was passable for the East Coasters and Mid-Westerners who thought Taco Bell was Mexican food, but John had grown up in Texas and California and knew better.
Across the room, a blond Firstie lifted his chin and tilted his head toward the exit. John checked the time. He'd sat there long enough. He nodded and excused himself. The apples in the fruit cart looked bruised so he grabbed an orange and joined 1st Class Nate Guilday in the center aisle.
"The goat trots at midnight," Guilday intoned dramatically.
"Cut the crap and keep your voice down," John said, walking with Nate out of Mitchell Hall and up the stairs to the Vandenberg Hall dormitory. "Midnight?" he asked when they were alone.
"Oh-one-forty-two, actually," Nate said. "Dex is on watch and has the arrival schedule."
"Great," John said, going into his room and kicking the door loose from its wedged-open position.
"You have Rockets this afternoon?" Nate asked, his hand resting on the back of John's neck.
"And Linear Systems Analysis," John said. "And wallyball this afternoon."
"Ok, so I won't see you 'til tonight." Nate's thumb stroked John's neck and when John turned, Nate kissed him briefly.
"I wish you wouldn't," John murmured, his body tense with dread rather than arousal. He didn't finish the thought, though, because they both knew he didn't really mean it. "Meet at oh-one-hundred," he said instead, hefting his bag.
"Yeah, you tell -- oh, you don't have to, he's here," Nate said as John's roommate walked in.
"I'm here," Dan Walker confirmed, throwing a banana onto his desk. "What's the gouge?"
"Navy goatfuckers get here at oh-one-forty-two," Nate said. "We're suiting up at oh-one-hundred and Shep's leading the charge as soon as the squids get ol' Bill tucked in for the night."
John wished Guilday and Walker didn't insist on putting him in charge of these projects. One of these days it was going to get his ass kicked.
What he didn't realize was that it was going to be someday soon.
Atlantis, Pegasus Galaxy, 2005
"This is a terrible idea," Rodney said as he and John walked out of the conference room.
"Shut up, she'll hear you," John said as if Rodney hadn't said the same thing fifteen minutes before, in front of the whole room.
"Of course you like it," Rodney complained. "You want to make it a sporting event. Do you know how many scientists have the least bit of interest participating in a sporting event? Especially against a squad of Marines?"
"It's not like we can play prime/not prime all day," John said. "I'll have a mutiny on my hands."
"I'm sure that would be as painful for us as it would be for them," Rodney said. "What else is there? Arts and crafts day? Talent competition?"
"A talent competition wouldn't be so bad," John mused. "I mean, it's fair. O'Grady can sing, at least."
"O'Grady thinks he can sing," Rodney corrected. "And you're tone-deaf."
John shrugged. "I am not," he said mildly. "But that's not a terrible idea."
"Yes. It is an extremely terrible idea," Rodney said. "Moving on, next terrible idea, please."
John rubbed his palm down his right pantleg. His trigger finger itched.
"What about," he suggested through gritted teeth, "something where we shoot things?"
US Air Force Academy, Colorado Springs, 1988
Midshipman Fourth Class Lorne trailed the rest of Team Bill to the duty van waiting to take them to the visitors' dorms at the Air Force Academy. He'd never been to Colorado before, had definitely never been on a USNA movement order before, and he was barely awake enough to revel in his good fortune. An entire weekend of being treated like a real person, restaurant food in Colorado Springs with the rest of the goat handling team after the game, and best of all, one of the upperclass had helped him with his Chemistry and Calculus homework on the plane, so the Twin Towers of Terror wouldn't be looming over him all weekend. He leaned his head on the soft back of the van's seat and let the murmured voices of the officer representative and the duty driver lull him to sleep.
He jerked awake as they pulled into the Academy and blinked in wonder at the surrounding mountains. Annapolis had some beautiful landscapes, but they were East Coast wonders, docked ships and cobblestone streets and old chapels. The Severn River wasn't what he'd call appealing, but it was old and it had history. Colorado Springs had something more. It had a fresh, free, atmosphere, almost a wilderness that -- even in the dark -- called to Lorne. The air smelled different, cleaner, and he knew that it was thinner. The oxygen level was lower and he'd definitely be feeling it during his morning run.
"Get a canteen of water in you while you're up," Second Class Mulveny told him as they corralled Bill XXVI into his assigned space. "Best way to beat the altitude is stay hydrated."
Lorne nodded. Mulveny's first name was Bill, too. He'd spooned Lorne the first day they'd met, because they were teammates, but try as he might, Lorne just couldn't use his first name with a straight face. He said good-night to the upperclass and settled in to the chair next to Bill's stall. Third Class Connolly, whom he did feel comfortable calling 'Brad' would relieve him in a few hours. Until then, all he had to do was watch over Bill and wait.
Atlantis, Pegasus Galaxy, 2005
"Ok, so how about a MALP race?" John suggested, stirring his stew with a spoon. "We form teams, let them soup up the things any way they want, and then we can race them down that bowling alley we found last month."
"You mean the variable friction experimentation corridor?" Rodney asked in horror. "Absolutely not! Besides, what are you? Twelve? We're not playing Science Olympiad or Robotics Club here and we'd kick your asses anyway. Next thing, you'll be suggesting tug-of-war. Why don't we just have a nice safe bake sale except wait, we have no actual ingredients and no one on the science team can cook anyway!"
"I think you gentlemen are missing the point." They hadn't even seen Elizabeth approach. She set her tray down and slid into the third seat at the round table. She gave them both significant looks and lifted a spoonful of stew almost to her mouth before she looked at it and put her spoon down again. "We want this to be about collaboration, not competition. I know the science team is excited about the new discoveries they're making, but they're not integrating well with the military component of the expedition and Colonel, it's pretty obvious that the Marines are getting bored."
John screwed up one side of his mouth and winced. Elizabeth had accidentally discovered Betty Lou, Sergeant Catanese's blow-up doll that had become the mascot of the men's locker room. To say she was not amused was an understatement and it took John quite a lot of backtracking to convince Elizabeth that he honestly had no idea it even existed after his initial assertion that Betty Lou was the name it had come with and no reflection whatsoever on Elizabeth, whose middle name wasn't actually anywhere close to Louise.
"McKay thinks we should have a talent show," he said, and sucked some stew off his spoon to keep from having to talk again.
"Oh, I did not," Rodney objected. "I said that a talent show was a better idea than any of the lame contests of physical prowess that you were coming up with, and then, if I recall correctly, which I do, I said that it was still a terrible idea."
"I think it's a great idea," Elizabeth said, watching John's face as he tried to swallow the lumpy parts and pushing her bowl away. "A talent competition would allow everyone to view others a little more three-dimensionally and it wouldn't hurt to let everyone have some time to develop or enhance their hobbies. Maybe if we did a showcase instead of a competition, it would be easier to include everyone's contributions."
John could see no good coming of this himself and Rodney was looking supremely horrified.
"I lead a team of extremely dedicated, career-oriented workaholics," he argued, his voice pitching high. "We don't have hobbies, let alone time to indulge in them!"
"You play the piano," Elizabeth said bluntly.
"You do?" John asked, having never heard this before.
"Played, past tense. As in, occurred a very long time ago. I assume you are both familiar with that principle, as you possess college degrees of some sort, even if they're not in anything useful," Rodney snapped. His jaw was starting to twitch.
"You played the piano?" John asked again.
"I bet some of the Marines have hidden talents," Elizabeth said, cheerfully ignoring Rodney's sputtering.
"Like shooting holes in things?" Rodney asked. "Can they re-create The Scream with 9 millimeter bullets punched through a paper target?"
Rodney looked like he was about to re-create The Scream himself, so John decided to let the piano question go for now.
"I don't know that you're necessarily going to get a lot of singing and dancing out of the Marines," he said doubtfully. As much as he hated to agree with Rodney when Rodney was in this state, he had to admit that the talent competition sounded like a frightfully bad situation to handle.
"All right," Elizabeth said, biting her bottom lip. "I'll tell you what. The two of you have one week to raise morale on this city, no questions asked. If I am not observing a marked improvement by then, I'm announcing the talent show and putting the two of you in charge."
Rodney moaned and John was so busy trying not to, it didn't even turn him on.
"Gentlemen?"
"Ok!" Rodney caved. "Ok, fine. We will do something. Anything. Just do not foist that -- that circus on us."
"One week," Elizabeth said, standing and taking her tray away with her.
"This is all on you, you know," Rodney said when she was nominally out of earshot.
"What? How is this my fault?" John asked. He was still biding his time on the piano thing.
"I'm not saying it's your fault, although it clearly is. I'm saying that my science team is not the morale problem. Your troops need to be perky and cheerful and happy to be here by next week or Elizabeth is dumping this thing on our heads, and by us, I mean you."
"Fine," John said huffily. "I'll take care of it."
"See that you do."
"Fine."
"Fine."
John stabbed the spoon into his mouth. "You got any Power Bars in your room?"
"Oatmeal Raisin."
John looked around the mess and found no one in earshot. He lowered his voice anyway. "Trade you one for a blowjob?"
Rodney smiled. "This is a new low, even for you," he said cheerfully. "Let's go."
US Air Force Academy, Colorado Springs, 1988
Walker was using the phone banks downstairs and John was finishing his Rockets homework when Nate came through the door.
"Where's Walkabout?" he asked, leaning over John's shoulder. "And why are you doing homework on a Friday night?"
"Dan's on the phone with Christine," John muttered, clicking more lead out of his mechanical pencil, "and we can't all be bull majors."
"We can't all be closet prodigies either," Nate contested, kissing the back of John's neck.
"I am a big fan of the closet," John said grimly, abandoning his equation and turning to reach for Nate.
"Also inappropriate humor," Nate said dryly.
John's desk was around a corner, a blind spot from the doorway. It meant that they had plenty of time to break apart and for Nate to adopt a casual slouch when Dan Walker finally entered, five minutes late.
"I'm sorry, Captain," John mocked in a high-pitched voice. "I was late for takeoff because I was busy planning my wedding."
"Shut the fuck up, Shep," Walker said lazily -- because he didn't have to sneak around to get his nookie, John though uncharitably. "Man, how many days 'til graduation?"
"Ask a doolie," Nate said, pulling a watch cap from his pocket. "Then add ten until you're back under the ball and chain."
"229," John said, pushing his homework to the back of his desk and opening the top drawer. He found two tubes of cammo paint and handed the light one to Nate. He squirted some of the dark on his own fingers and dabbed at his forehead, nose, chin and cheekbones -- the highlighted parts of his face. Nate rubbed the light paint on the shadowed areas and they switched. Dan changed out of his PE gear and into cammie pants, a dark t-shirt, and then swiped both tubes to matte out his already dark face. John gave them the once-over. Nate's blond hair was hidden by his dark knit cap and both he and Dan were dark enough not to need one.
As Firsties, John and Dan had managed to procure a room that was in the back hallway and next to a stairwell, so they managed to get downstairs without being noticed. The second classmen had all returned from liberty by midnight and the ones on weekend were still out in town drinking.
They stayed in the shadows, next to buildings, and could hear the watch patrols and a squadron of doolies off to commit some bit of mischief in the name of spirit. John beckoned toward the falconry and its attached sheds.
John peered inside, glancing over the stall and the lone figure leaning a chair against the wall. He eased back and held up one finger. Walker nodded. He was by far the largest of the trio and since one door meant a frontal assault, he'd be in charge of incapacitating the guard. John held up his hand, five fingers spread, and tucked each one in slowly. When he had a fist, Walker went in. Two beats later, John and Nate followed him.
The squid was putting up a struggle, but Walker had gotten a beefy arm around his neck and swung him against the wall where he proceeded to cut off the kid's air with his forearm. John unwound the lengths of rope he'd wrapped around his waist, under his inside-out sweatshirt, and waited for Dan to do his thing. A moment later, the squid sagged. Dan pulled him around and eased his grip. John checked the kid's breathing and, satisfied with the air expelled on his hand, nodded at Dan to put him back in the chair. John bound his hands and feet to the arms and legs of the chair and knotted a handkerchief around his eyes. He used a second handkerchief to gag the kid but didn't make it tight.
Satisfied that they'd eliminated the guard, he turned his attention to the stall. Inside, Bill XXVI slept, snoring. John hadn't known goats snored. He also hadn't expected Bill to be quite so large. Or dirty.
"That is one ugly motherfucker," Dan muttered, looping rope around the goat's back legs.
"No shit," Nate agreed, taking care of the front end.
"You guys go ahead," John ordered softly. "I'm going to wait for the squid to wake up and then I'll meet you at the hangar."
They nodded and shuffled off with Bill between them, and John sat back on his heels. He didn't have to wait long.
"Name, rank, and serial number," he said when the kid moved his head and made a noise.
Angry and very muffled sounds came from beneath the gag. John believed he was being cursed out by a mere plebe.
"Hey," he said, resting a hand on the top of the kid's head. The noises quieted. "I'm going to ask you a question. If the answer is yes, grunt once. If it's no, grunt twice. Can you breathe?" One grunt. He sounded, John thought in inappropriate amusement, disgruntled. "Do you have circulation in your hands and feet?" A pause while the kid wiggled his hands and tried to move his feet. One grunt. "It's not personal, plebe," John said. "You'll be ok until morning." Just to be an ass, he patted the kid on the head and took off at a run. He met Dan and Nate coming out of the unused hangar on the airfield that they'd picked out earlier that week for storage of Bill XXVI.
Nods from both told John that the mission was accomplished and Bill was tucked safely away until later. He beckoned them back toward the main campus. Two miles later, they were safely in Dan and John's room, wiping their faces and pulling off sweaty clothes.
"Can you imagine the squids' faces when their goat's gone and their guard's tied up?" Dan asked, leaning forward and slapping his knee. He roared with laughter.
"Man, that thing weighed a ton," Nate added. He was grinning and John could feel the excitement pouring off him. It was contagious.
"We shall live in infamy, gentlemen," he said with mock solemnity. "Go Air Force. Beat Navy."
"I need a shower," Dan said, grabbing his towel. "That fucker stank to high heaven."
John grinned at him and Dan grinned back, nodding. "Get rid of the evidence," he said.
The door closed behind Dan, leaving Nate and John alone.
"God, what a rush," Nate rasped, and pressed himself up against John. John could feel his cock, hard in his utility pants, and sealed his mouth against Nate's, giving in to the energy thrumming through his body. He swept his tongue through Nate's mouth, pulled back and sucked lightly at his lower lip, and then dove back in, letting his hands clutch at Nate's swimmer's shoulders. Nate moved his hips against John's leg, his hand large and warm on John's neck.
John dragged his mouth away with a gasp and Nate bent his head to tongue John's Adam's apple. He felt Nate's hand between his legs, through his pants, and wanted to come.
"I could blow you right here," Nate whispered. "We could be done before Dan gets back."
John wanted to say yes, wanted to end a perfect prank night with a perfect orgasm but the risk made the back of his neck tingle and his chest seize up. He got off on risk, he told himself, but not this much risk. This was just stupid. Tomorrow night, he told himself, pushing Nate away gently. Tomorrow night they could go out drinking, in civvies, and drive out somewhere in Nate's T-Bird and park and neck and blow each other until 0100.
"Guilday," he said with as sarcastic a smirk as he could muster, pushing arm's length with a squarely planted palm. "Fuck, no. You smell like goat."
Atlantis, Pegasus Galaxy, 2005
"Major!" John had spotted the back of Lorne's head as he'd turned the corner and broke into a jog to catch up with the other man.
"Colonel," Lorne greeted him back, pausing and stepping to the side of the hall so they could walk side-by-side.
"We have a problem," John said, matching strides with Lorne.
Lorne raised his eyebrows.
"We need to up the morale by next week or risk Dr. Weir holding a talent competition," John explained. "And by Dr. Weir, I mean me and McKay. And by me and McKay I mean -- "
"Me and Zelenka," Lorne finished.
John grinned humorlessly. Lorne was a great 2IC. He already had a firm grasp of the situation.
"Right. So. We need some morale. In a hurry. Are we on the same page?" He raised his eyebrows at Lorne.
"Yes, sir," Lorne said with a fair degree of enthusiasm. "I'll get right on that."
"Good man," John said, clapping him on the back. "Please don't give me details."
US Air Force Academy, Colorado Springs, 1988
Lorne spent four hours shifting between enraged and humiliated, and by the time Mulveny and Brad Connolly came to relieve him, he'd almost managed to work the gag out.
He'd expected to get flamed for losing Bill but they seemed pretty intent on blaming the zoomies and ensuring Lorne wasn't any worse for the wear after his hours of captivity.
The next two hours were sort of a blur, as Mulveny reported the theft of Bill to their officer advisor and Lieutenant Hill passed the message up the USAFA chain of command until Lorne was sitting in the Commandant of Cadets' office, assuring him that no damage had come to his person. He thought about adding that whoever had tied him up had taken special consideration to ensure his safety, but he wasn't feeling that charitable.
Lieutenant Hill turned them loose at 0800, reminding them to be ready to ride over to the game at noon. He was pretty pissed and Lorne was feeling pretty guilty.
"We need to go find Bill," he said. "We've got four hours. Whoever took him is going to be up and moving around."
"You don't think they're just going to make him AWOL for the game?" Brad asked doubtfully.
"I wouldn't," Lorne said. "I'd pull some prank to embarrass us and show that Bill's not there."
Mulveny and Connolly exchanged amused glances. "You know," Connolly said slowly, "it'd be a shame if the zoomies wound up missing their bird, too."
"It would," Mulveny agreed. "Ok. We'll go look into snatching the falcon, you go look for the goat. We'll come help out if there's too many people around.
Lorne tossed off a mock salute and followed Mulveny and Connolly to the falconry and Bill's empty stall.
Atlantis, Pegasus Galaxy, 2005
"McKay to Sheppard."
John thought that he hadn't heard that tone of contempt and displeasure in Rodney's summons since, well, at least a week ago.
"Sheppard here," he said, touching the radio. He was five yards away from the jumper bay. Four. Three.
"You're needed in the lab yesterday," Rodney snapped. "Whatever you're about to insist you need to do is nowhere near as important as what is going on here."
John opened his mouth, closed it again, and executed a marching pivot at the jumper bay doors. They opened for him anyway. He felt like a tease.
"I'm on my way," he said as pleasantly as he could and reminded himself that Rodney have given him a spectacular blow job that morning and he hadn't even had to give up a Power Bar.
Chaos greeted him at the lab.
"What is going on?" he asked, shoving past Kavanaugh to get to Rodney.
Rodney thrust a piece of paper into his hand. "This is what is going on," he said. His voice was strident and irritated -- that specific note of strident and irritated that meant Rodney was one wrong word away from losing it.
John took the note silently, not willing to contribute that one wrong word.
WE HAVE YOUR CAT-THING,
the note read.
That was it.
"This is it?" John said, holding up the note between his index and middle fingers. "No ransom demand? No indication of motive?"
He was very impressed that he managed to say all three sentences with a straight face.
"That's it," Rodney confirmed. "I insist -- I demand that you start an investigation at once and find out who would do such a thing. Quark is very special to the science team and now she's alone. In the hands of -- of the fiend that did this."
John nodded and chewed on his bottom lip. This was entirely his fault. Lorne had completely interpreted his request incorrectly, but really, given their history, this was John's fault. Granted, this was going to amuse the Marines for months but it also meant that Rodney and most likely the rest of the science team would be pissy beyond belief for -- well, for as long as it took Lorne and the Marines to get bored or the science team to run across something new and fun and forget about Quark.
Sadly, the impact on John's personal life, most notably his blow job schedule, was going to be considerable.
US Air Force Academy, Colorado Springs, 1988
Saturday morning formation was the usual sleepy affair, cadets lined up in PE gear and upperclass with red eyes making incoherent announcements before stumbling back to bed for a few hours.
A Naval Academy exchange cadet, a Second Class, had been assigned to the squadron a floor down and he'd been found duct-taped to a chair with the words, "Go Air Force, Beat Navy" written on his chest in blue ink. The Squadron Commander intoned doom unto anyone who may have participated in such a heinous act, reminded everyone of the time and location to be in formation and ready to go for that afternoon's game, and stumbled into the wardroom. A few seconds later, television sounds blared.
John looked at his doolies, who were looking a little red around the eyes themselves, and thought of the Navy midshipman he'd left tied up in Bill's stall. He walked down the line and paused in front of them.
"How you feeling, Kaplan?" he asked.
"Outstanding, sir!"
John nodded. "You guys have a productive evening?"
The chorus of "Sir, yes, sir," was a little less assertive than Kaplan's enthusiastic answer.
"Good," he said cheerfully. "Go memorize some rates or do some Calculus. I'm going back to bed."
Formation broke up and Nate caught up with John and Dan as they headed back to their room in the back hallway.
"Phase two, gentlemen," John said, stripping off his drawstring shorts and the 1986 Air Force/Navy game t-shirt from his Third Class year. He pulled a regulation undershirt over his head and stepped into his flight suit, zipping it up to his collarbone.
"Are you going to have time to get into uniform?" Dan asked, pulling on his own flight suit.
"Yeah, it'll be a pinch but I'll be ok."
"You'll have my squad, right?" Nate asked, getting into the flight suit he'd left in John and Dan's room the night before.
"Yeah, I'll take them," John said. "You have the gear?"
"Right here." Nate grinned. "Bill's about to become a zoomie."
They ran downstairs, no one looking at them twice in their flight suits. Saturday morning training, they all assumed, guessing that firstie laziness hadn't yet taken hold.
"Y'know, there was no announcement at morning quarters," Nate said. "You think they found him already?"
That idea slowed their pace a bit.
"No," John said decisively. "If they'd found him already, they'd be screaming bloody murder over who had taken him and tied up the squid. That they haven't said anything means they're trying not to humiliate the middies." They jogged past the falconry and John had a flash of guilt. "I'm going to check the shed," he said. "I just want to make sure the kid we tied up got out of there."
"Well, hurry," Dan told him. "And be careful. It's like returning to the scene of the crime, man."
"I will," John promised and sprinted off in the other direction. There was a clutch of cadets from the falconry team gathered around the building and John saw a guy he knew from class. "Hey," he said, approaching. "I was on my way to the airfield -- "
"Shep! Dude, someone stole the goat!"
John blinked.
"Seriously! The Navy mascot! Someone took it! They're trying to keep it all hush-hush but they came in today," his classmate said, jerking his head toward the stall, "and the goat was gone and their guard all tied up. Man, I wish I'd gotten to see it!"
John spent a few seconds agreeing that it had been a great prank and faked an urgent need to get to the airfield. He had to take an emergency detour off the trail when he realized the officer walking the trail three hundred yards in front of him was his squadron Air Officer Commanding, Captain Davis. He stumbled along parallel to the trail for another mile and emerged into the field undetected. He was only about a hundred yards away from the hangar when Dan and Nate burst out, looking disheveled.
"John," Nate said. "Bill is gone."
Atlantis, Pegasus Galaxy, 2005
The worst part of the Quark Incident, John realized quickly, was avoiding Elizabeth. As usual, she was right on top of everything that happened in Atlantis and there was no way John could swear complete innocence -- or ignorance -- over Quark's disappearance. And Elizabeth had an almost maternal instinct about guilt.
The second worst part of the Quark Incident, John realized a little less quickly, was avoiding Rodney. Fortunately, it was generally easy to hear Rodney before seeing him, and that kept John on the move for quite a while.
John was walking down the hallway to Lorne's room to check up on Quark when he saw Weir reflected in one of the shiny baubles standing at the junction of two halls. He turned on his heel and went resolutely the other way, walking right into Rodney.
"There you are," Rodney snapped, grabbing John's forearm. "Why aren't you on radio?"
"I was working out," John protested, which had been true four hours ago.
"Well, I just thought you should know," Rodney hissed, checking the hallway for eavesdroppers. "We suspect the Marines."
"We?" John repeated, so he didn't have to feign indignity that Rodney would suspect his people.
"Science team," Rodney said shortly. "We're sure they have Quark and we've cut off hot water and climate controls to those quarters."
"You've what?" John asked, forgetting to keep his voice low.
"Shh!" Rodney's quarters weren't far, down the hall and around the corner, and John found himself dragged there and behind the door in seconds. "We've cut off hot water, AC, heat, all that, from the Marines until they give up Quark. Your quarters are fine, of course, because we all know you're on our side, and if someone screws up, you know you can just come stay with me."
John blinked. "I'm on your side?" he said dumbly.
"Everyone's seen you slip cheese and...stuff...for Quark. They know you love her."
John felt intensely guilty.
"Rodney," he said hesitantly and then stopped. He couldn't sell out Lorne, not when this was mostly his own fault, anyway.
"Look, I know you've been working hard on this investigation thing," Rodney said. "I haven't seen you for a day and a half. We're just trying to help out some."
John nodded slowly.
"So," Rodney said, eagerness bleeding into his expression. "What have you found out?"
"Um." Stall, stall, he told himself. "I've got some leads," he said slowly and did Rodney just lean forward? "The thing is," he amended, "I'm trying to keep it quiet, y'know? Put some feelers out, lay a few tracks, wait for the guilty party to hang himself. And I'm afraid if I tell anyone exactly what I'm doing, the...culprit...will get suspicious."
Rodney's face fell a little and the guilt was back in force.
"All right," he said. "I understand."
"I'm sorry," John said with as much faux reluctance as he could offer.
"It's ok." Rodney smiled a brave, lopsided smile. John had a sense of impending doom. "I just...got used to having her around. She licked my face in the morning and was there when I came home and I feel like I failed her! I let some awful men take her away and who knows what they're feeding her!"
John cringed. They were going to have to talk.
"You know, it's just like that dog I had when I was eight. My father wouldn't pay for a license and so when it got out and disappeared, there was nothing they could do to track it and -- you know what would really help right now?"
John hoped his horror wasn't visible on his face. They were going to have to talk about feelings. "What?" he asked, raising one eyebrow and preparing to bolt for the door.
Rodney's gaze was sincere. "A comfort blow job."
"Oh." Well. That would absolutely cut down on the talking. John could do that. John could definitely do that. "I can do that," he said, stepping closer to Rodney.
"Good, because I'm really starting to miss her and I'm wondering whether she's homesick and it would be really nice to have some company to take my mind off the whole thing -- "
John helped Rodney take his mind off the whole thing by sticking his tongue down Rodney's throat. That took care of the talking thing nicely, and by the time he got Rodney stripped down and sprawled across his bed, there was no question that Rodney's mind was definitely off anything regarding small alien cats.
John was feeling extremely sensitive and comforting when he finally eased off and wiped his mouth. He was just unbuttoning his own pants for a little comfort of his own when Rodney sat straight up.
"That's it!" he exclaimed, jumping off the bed rather spryly for someone claiming bonelessness thirty seconds earlier and hopped around the room, trying to get his legs into the correct part of his pants.
"Um," John said, watching Rodney yank a shirt over his head and glanced down at his own uncomforted anatomy.
"I've got an idea!" Rodney called, doing up his pants and trying to stand on one foot to put his boots on. He crashed heavily against the wall but managed to stay upright. "We should be able to find her in no time!" He hopped into his other boot and was out the door before John could call after him again.
"Gee, Rodney," he said to the room. "Glad I could help."
He rolled his eyes, adjusted himself so not to be obvious, and drank a glass of water from Rodney's sink. Sufficiently calmed, he ventured back into the hallway, glad there was no one around to see him walking out of McKay's room with McKay nowhere to be found.
Lorne's quarters weren't far away and it was a good thing, because John needed Quark back, and now. He wasn't sure if Rodney had caught on to his complicity or if he was just channeling the Absent-Minded Professor, but he had to put an end to it right now.
And maybe, if he was lucky, he'd get a blow job of gratitude from the deal.
He steeled himself and knocked on Lorne's door. It took the Major so long to answer that John almost turned away and called him on the radio.
"Yeah, did you -- Colonel."
John looked Lorne over carefully. He was wearing mesh shorts that had lost most of their elastic, a Property of the US Air Force t-shirt that was soaked in sweat and had at least a dozen small rips throughout the torso and no sleeves, and his face had a nasty red scratch down one cheek. His hair was spiked up in a sorry imitation of John's own style.
"Cut yourself shaving?" John asked, nodding at the scratch.
"That cat," Lorne said, belatedly tacking a, "Colonel," on the end, "is a hellbeast."
"Well," John said, smirking. "I guess it's a good thing I've come to take her off your hands, then. We've driven McKay crazy enough and I'm sure you guys want your hot water back on." ...And John wanted his Blow Job of Gratitude.
"Oh, the hot water's just the start of it," Lorne said darkly. "Trust me, Colonel, I would love to give that thing back to McKay."
"And the problem with this is?" John asked, feeling his Blow Job of Gratitude slip away.
Lorne's face took on a helpless cast and it was all John could do to wait until Lorne said the actual words before dropping his face into his hands and groaning.
"Colonel, Quark's gone."
US Air Force Academy, Colorado Springs, 1988
"What do you mean, 'Bill is gone'?" John asked in his most controlled voice. "Bill is a goat. How is the goat gone?"
"Chewed through the damn ropes," Dan said, holding the soggy remains of the tether.
"Well, we have to find it," John said, voice rising on the last words.
"It probably hasn't gone far," Dan suggested. "Let's split up and see if we can find it. I mean hell, it's a goat, it's not like it's going to be hard to recognize."
John pulled a face and turned away. "Guilday," he said, "give me the stuff."
"You sure?" Nate asked, handing him the small pouch.
"Yeah. Look, we have about an hour until anybody misses us," John said. "We'll split up and search, if either of you two find it, come back this way and find me. If you don't find it, go on back. I'll look for as long as I can and bring out the cart when I find it. Captain Davis loves me. I can risk the AWOL if we don't find him."
"If we don't find him," Dan said, "you can come back with us and it's like it never happened. Someone will find the damn thing. They probably already have."
John looked at his friends. Dan was probably right but John hated leaving loose ends.
"Let's see if we can find it first," he said, hoping to be able to put off the decision at all. They split up into three directions. Nate and Dan went to the check the other hangars. John started toward another hangar, then decided to go back to where they had been keeping Bill. The bits of food they'd scavenged from the mess hall were gone and John wondered if they hadn't donated enough. Goats were trash compactors, he knew, and if Bill was hungry -- and wily -- enough to chew through his rope, he might have gone looking for more to eat. He walked the runways for a few minutes and almost immediately found patches of masticated grass.
He followed the trail, backtracking twice when he went too far, and pausing when he reached the airstrip. A DHC-6 Twin Otter sat on the tarmac, engine engaged, and left cargo door open. The Academy used them for training cadets in rapid aircraft egress -- skydiving. John had been up in one dozens of times, but this one didn't seem to have a passenger manifest. Everyone was supposed to be at the game.
Bad news he thought with one last glance back at the hangars. Guilday and Walker were nowhere in sight. The DHC-6 was the only thing on the runway and its engines were engaged. Before he really thought about what he was doing, John had dashed up the little metal staircase on the side of the Twin Otter and started looking under the tarps and O2 canisters and jump packs stowed in the back.
He was so busy looking for Bill the Goat, he almost didn't hear the attack from behind.
Part Two
Author: Smitty
Rating: Not for kids, a few scenes that are semi-explicit.
Pairing: Sheppard/McKay, Sheppard/OMC (flashback)
Excuses: None
Blame: Mostly reccea for agreeing with me that sure, I could have this done in two days and then talked to me every day for over a week to make sure I was still working on this. Also, to miss_porcupine for refusing to pity me and to kerithwyn for being available to whine to. Apparently somebody needs to explain to me -- slowly and in words of one syllable -- the definition of 'flashfic'. This came in at about 14,500 words.
Note: Part of this story is set at the US Air Force Academy and contains slang and traditions endemic to such things. A few of the more esoteric terms link to a tiny little glossary. My knowledge base is primarily the US Naval Academy so some of the terms and traditions may have been imposed on the USAFA by my own memories.
Summary: In 1988, Cadet First Class John Sheppard stole a goat. In 2005, Major Lorne steals a Cat-Thing. It turns out that stealing mascots is never as good an idea as one would think.
The Beatings Will Continue Until Morale Improves
by Smitty
Atlantis, Pegasus Galaxy, 2005
Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard hadn't been allowed to choose the men and women serving under his command. They'd been pre-selected by General Landry and Colonel Caldwell by the time he got back to Earth. He wasn't sure how he felt about leading Caldwell's troops, but one look at Major Lorne's record told him that his second-in-command was absolutely the best person for the job.
"Says here you're an Annapolis grad," he said from behind his laptop.
"Yes, sir," Lorne replied. "Class of '92."
John leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. "You were on the goat handling squad," he continued, not even trying to hide his glee.
"Yes, sir," Lorne said, still earnestly poker-faced. "Had some good times, me and Bill the Goat."
John decided that even a wickedly raised eyebrow was beneath him. It was just too easy.
"Yeah," he said instead. "You don't remember the score of the '88 game against Air Force, do you?"
Lorne's face went white, then red, then back to normal.
"Not off the top of my head, sir," he said in a voice that was ever-so-slightly choked. "Did you play?"
"No," John said, deciding right then and there that Lorne was a pretty standup guy for a ex-squid. "But I was a fan."
Atlantis, Pegasus Galaxy, 2005
When Rodney brought back a tiny cat-thing with overly large, wet eyes from MXP-253, John should have seen trouble on the horizon. It was entirely too cute to be completely innocent.
The people of MXP-253 kept the creatures as pets. The governor's little daughter handed one to Rodney with the solemn declaration that he looked like he needed a cat. 'Wassal', actually, but John was just as happy to calling it a cat, and she was right -- Rodney definitely looked like he needed a cat. Mostly it was just excuse to tease him all the way back to the stargate.
Once Beckett had cleared the animal as safe, even Elizabeth couldn't tell Rodney no. Thusly, the newly dubbed Quark settled happily in Rodney's quarters and soon became the mascot of the science team.
"I'm just worried that she'll feel pressured to live up the my memory of Jake," Rodney fretted, chopping up pilfered meat for Quark's dinner as Quark herself sat on his desk and stared adorably at John. John tried not to stare back. "Really, it's not a contest and even though Jake was clearly a superlative representation of his species, Quark is a completely unique individual and needs to establish her own identity -- "
John rolled his eyes. "I just can't believe you're not allergic to her," he said, reaching out and rubbing two fingers behind Quark's ear, over the furry head. He really was more of a dog person but the eyes were too much, even for him.
Rodney paused and that made John glance up. Rodney could turn a pause into an event. "That is kind of odd, isn't it?" he said thoughtfully. "I never had a problem with animals, though. I mean, there was this dog that I had when I was a kid. He ran away and -- well, anyway, not an allergy." He set the Petrie dish of chopped meat in front of Quark and rubbed her behind the other ear. She dodged them both and started chowing down.
"I think we've been dumped for a dish of mystery meat," John remarked.
"Ah, well, cat loyalty," Rodney said. "What's this meeting about, anyway?"
"Unit morale," John said as they left Rodney's quarters and headed for the conference room in the control tower.
"Morale?" Rodney spat out, stopping short in the middle of the hall. When John showed no sign of breaking stride, he sacrificed his Posture of Outrage and caught up. "There is nothing wrong with morale," he said. "We're on Atlantis. We have a ZedPM. There are ten thousand things going on that qualify as the culmination of someone's life work, and Elizabeth thinks we need to build morale? Is she insane?"
John shrugged. Privately, he felt the same way even though he knew some of the Marines were bored and homesick. With the Daedalus making regular runs, the new people were not quite the adventurers who had walked through the 'gate with him and Rodney and Elizabeth. Intellectually, he knew they couldn't have gone on as they were indefinitely without contact with Earth, but secretly he missed the old team and the constant hunt for a ZPM and even the adrenaline edge of the impending Wraith attack. He didn't miss regular encounters with the Wraith themselves and he didn't mind going almost six months without having to arm the self-destruct sequence or blow up a naquadah generator, but he was feeling a little aimless himself.
"Let's hear her out," he suggested to Rodney. "It could be fun."
US Air Force Academy, Colorado Springs, 1988
"Go Kaplan, go Kaplan, go Kaplan!"
"BEAT NAVY, SIR!" Cadet 4th Class Kaplan slammed his mess hall glass onto the table and jumped off his chair.
"Good job, Kaplan." Cadet 1st Class John Sheppard looked down the table at his three doolies, amused by tensely excited poker faces and stiff comportment. Kaplan was looking a little green. "Have your spare glass?" John asked a Firstie at the next table. It was summarily passed over and John slid it toward Kaplan. "Get some water," he said. "And carry on for the rest of the meal."
The doolies grinned and relaxed in their chairs. Kaplan went right for the water pitcher.
The week before one service academy played another at football was electric with bridling motivation. Nothing in Colorado Springs was as intense as Army-Navy week, John was sure, but the Air Force Academy had its ways of making its own events memorable. Mixing the contents of the condiment rack and having a doolie drink it wasn't one of John's preferred spirit activities -- entirely too likely to end in vomiting -- but one of the 2nd Class had ordered Kaplan to do a 'Beat Navy' and John was more than happy to confer the reward of being permitted to talk at tables. After all, it was quasi-burrito day and Kaplan's glass had included both picante sauce and guacamole. John made a little more of a mess with his quasi-burrito -- it was passable for the East Coasters and Mid-Westerners who thought Taco Bell was Mexican food, but John had grown up in Texas and California and knew better.
Across the room, a blond Firstie lifted his chin and tilted his head toward the exit. John checked the time. He'd sat there long enough. He nodded and excused himself. The apples in the fruit cart looked bruised so he grabbed an orange and joined 1st Class Nate Guilday in the center aisle.
"The goat trots at midnight," Guilday intoned dramatically.
"Cut the crap and keep your voice down," John said, walking with Nate out of Mitchell Hall and up the stairs to the Vandenberg Hall dormitory. "Midnight?" he asked when they were alone.
"Oh-one-forty-two, actually," Nate said. "Dex is on watch and has the arrival schedule."
"Great," John said, going into his room and kicking the door loose from its wedged-open position.
"You have Rockets this afternoon?" Nate asked, his hand resting on the back of John's neck.
"And Linear Systems Analysis," John said. "And wallyball this afternoon."
"Ok, so I won't see you 'til tonight." Nate's thumb stroked John's neck and when John turned, Nate kissed him briefly.
"I wish you wouldn't," John murmured, his body tense with dread rather than arousal. He didn't finish the thought, though, because they both knew he didn't really mean it. "Meet at oh-one-hundred," he said instead, hefting his bag.
"Yeah, you tell -- oh, you don't have to, he's here," Nate said as John's roommate walked in.
"I'm here," Dan Walker confirmed, throwing a banana onto his desk. "What's the gouge?"
"Navy goatfuckers get here at oh-one-forty-two," Nate said. "We're suiting up at oh-one-hundred and Shep's leading the charge as soon as the squids get ol' Bill tucked in for the night."
John wished Guilday and Walker didn't insist on putting him in charge of these projects. One of these days it was going to get his ass kicked.
What he didn't realize was that it was going to be someday soon.
Atlantis, Pegasus Galaxy, 2005
"This is a terrible idea," Rodney said as he and John walked out of the conference room.
"Shut up, she'll hear you," John said as if Rodney hadn't said the same thing fifteen minutes before, in front of the whole room.
"Of course you like it," Rodney complained. "You want to make it a sporting event. Do you know how many scientists have the least bit of interest participating in a sporting event? Especially against a squad of Marines?"
"It's not like we can play prime/not prime all day," John said. "I'll have a mutiny on my hands."
"I'm sure that would be as painful for us as it would be for them," Rodney said. "What else is there? Arts and crafts day? Talent competition?"
"A talent competition wouldn't be so bad," John mused. "I mean, it's fair. O'Grady can sing, at least."
"O'Grady thinks he can sing," Rodney corrected. "And you're tone-deaf."
John shrugged. "I am not," he said mildly. "But that's not a terrible idea."
"Yes. It is an extremely terrible idea," Rodney said. "Moving on, next terrible idea, please."
John rubbed his palm down his right pantleg. His trigger finger itched.
"What about," he suggested through gritted teeth, "something where we shoot things?"
US Air Force Academy, Colorado Springs, 1988
Midshipman Fourth Class Lorne trailed the rest of Team Bill to the duty van waiting to take them to the visitors' dorms at the Air Force Academy. He'd never been to Colorado before, had definitely never been on a USNA movement order before, and he was barely awake enough to revel in his good fortune. An entire weekend of being treated like a real person, restaurant food in Colorado Springs with the rest of the goat handling team after the game, and best of all, one of the upperclass had helped him with his Chemistry and Calculus homework on the plane, so the Twin Towers of Terror wouldn't be looming over him all weekend. He leaned his head on the soft back of the van's seat and let the murmured voices of the officer representative and the duty driver lull him to sleep.
He jerked awake as they pulled into the Academy and blinked in wonder at the surrounding mountains. Annapolis had some beautiful landscapes, but they were East Coast wonders, docked ships and cobblestone streets and old chapels. The Severn River wasn't what he'd call appealing, but it was old and it had history. Colorado Springs had something more. It had a fresh, free, atmosphere, almost a wilderness that -- even in the dark -- called to Lorne. The air smelled different, cleaner, and he knew that it was thinner. The oxygen level was lower and he'd definitely be feeling it during his morning run.
"Get a canteen of water in you while you're up," Second Class Mulveny told him as they corralled Bill XXVI into his assigned space. "Best way to beat the altitude is stay hydrated."
Lorne nodded. Mulveny's first name was Bill, too. He'd spooned Lorne the first day they'd met, because they were teammates, but try as he might, Lorne just couldn't use his first name with a straight face. He said good-night to the upperclass and settled in to the chair next to Bill's stall. Third Class Connolly, whom he did feel comfortable calling 'Brad' would relieve him in a few hours. Until then, all he had to do was watch over Bill and wait.
Atlantis, Pegasus Galaxy, 2005
"Ok, so how about a MALP race?" John suggested, stirring his stew with a spoon. "We form teams, let them soup up the things any way they want, and then we can race them down that bowling alley we found last month."
"You mean the variable friction experimentation corridor?" Rodney asked in horror. "Absolutely not! Besides, what are you? Twelve? We're not playing Science Olympiad or Robotics Club here and we'd kick your asses anyway. Next thing, you'll be suggesting tug-of-war. Why don't we just have a nice safe bake sale except wait, we have no actual ingredients and no one on the science team can cook anyway!"
"I think you gentlemen are missing the point." They hadn't even seen Elizabeth approach. She set her tray down and slid into the third seat at the round table. She gave them both significant looks and lifted a spoonful of stew almost to her mouth before she looked at it and put her spoon down again. "We want this to be about collaboration, not competition. I know the science team is excited about the new discoveries they're making, but they're not integrating well with the military component of the expedition and Colonel, it's pretty obvious that the Marines are getting bored."
John screwed up one side of his mouth and winced. Elizabeth had accidentally discovered Betty Lou, Sergeant Catanese's blow-up doll that had become the mascot of the men's locker room. To say she was not amused was an understatement and it took John quite a lot of backtracking to convince Elizabeth that he honestly had no idea it even existed after his initial assertion that Betty Lou was the name it had come with and no reflection whatsoever on Elizabeth, whose middle name wasn't actually anywhere close to Louise.
"McKay thinks we should have a talent show," he said, and sucked some stew off his spoon to keep from having to talk again.
"Oh, I did not," Rodney objected. "I said that a talent show was a better idea than any of the lame contests of physical prowess that you were coming up with, and then, if I recall correctly, which I do, I said that it was still a terrible idea."
"I think it's a great idea," Elizabeth said, watching John's face as he tried to swallow the lumpy parts and pushing her bowl away. "A talent competition would allow everyone to view others a little more three-dimensionally and it wouldn't hurt to let everyone have some time to develop or enhance their hobbies. Maybe if we did a showcase instead of a competition, it would be easier to include everyone's contributions."
John could see no good coming of this himself and Rodney was looking supremely horrified.
"I lead a team of extremely dedicated, career-oriented workaholics," he argued, his voice pitching high. "We don't have hobbies, let alone time to indulge in them!"
"You play the piano," Elizabeth said bluntly.
"You do?" John asked, having never heard this before.
"Played, past tense. As in, occurred a very long time ago. I assume you are both familiar with that principle, as you possess college degrees of some sort, even if they're not in anything useful," Rodney snapped. His jaw was starting to twitch.
"You played the piano?" John asked again.
"I bet some of the Marines have hidden talents," Elizabeth said, cheerfully ignoring Rodney's sputtering.
"Like shooting holes in things?" Rodney asked. "Can they re-create The Scream with 9 millimeter bullets punched through a paper target?"
Rodney looked like he was about to re-create The Scream himself, so John decided to let the piano question go for now.
"I don't know that you're necessarily going to get a lot of singing and dancing out of the Marines," he said doubtfully. As much as he hated to agree with Rodney when Rodney was in this state, he had to admit that the talent competition sounded like a frightfully bad situation to handle.
"All right," Elizabeth said, biting her bottom lip. "I'll tell you what. The two of you have one week to raise morale on this city, no questions asked. If I am not observing a marked improvement by then, I'm announcing the talent show and putting the two of you in charge."
Rodney moaned and John was so busy trying not to, it didn't even turn him on.
"Gentlemen?"
"Ok!" Rodney caved. "Ok, fine. We will do something. Anything. Just do not foist that -- that circus on us."
"One week," Elizabeth said, standing and taking her tray away with her.
"This is all on you, you know," Rodney said when she was nominally out of earshot.
"What? How is this my fault?" John asked. He was still biding his time on the piano thing.
"I'm not saying it's your fault, although it clearly is. I'm saying that my science team is not the morale problem. Your troops need to be perky and cheerful and happy to be here by next week or Elizabeth is dumping this thing on our heads, and by us, I mean you."
"Fine," John said huffily. "I'll take care of it."
"See that you do."
"Fine."
"Fine."
John stabbed the spoon into his mouth. "You got any Power Bars in your room?"
"Oatmeal Raisin."
John looked around the mess and found no one in earshot. He lowered his voice anyway. "Trade you one for a blowjob?"
Rodney smiled. "This is a new low, even for you," he said cheerfully. "Let's go."
US Air Force Academy, Colorado Springs, 1988
Walker was using the phone banks downstairs and John was finishing his Rockets homework when Nate came through the door.
"Where's Walkabout?" he asked, leaning over John's shoulder. "And why are you doing homework on a Friday night?"
"Dan's on the phone with Christine," John muttered, clicking more lead out of his mechanical pencil, "and we can't all be bull majors."
"We can't all be closet prodigies either," Nate contested, kissing the back of John's neck.
"I am a big fan of the closet," John said grimly, abandoning his equation and turning to reach for Nate.
"Also inappropriate humor," Nate said dryly.
John's desk was around a corner, a blind spot from the doorway. It meant that they had plenty of time to break apart and for Nate to adopt a casual slouch when Dan Walker finally entered, five minutes late.
"I'm sorry, Captain," John mocked in a high-pitched voice. "I was late for takeoff because I was busy planning my wedding."
"Shut the fuck up, Shep," Walker said lazily -- because he didn't have to sneak around to get his nookie, John though uncharitably. "Man, how many days 'til graduation?"
"Ask a doolie," Nate said, pulling a watch cap from his pocket. "Then add ten until you're back under the ball and chain."
"229," John said, pushing his homework to the back of his desk and opening the top drawer. He found two tubes of cammo paint and handed the light one to Nate. He squirted some of the dark on his own fingers and dabbed at his forehead, nose, chin and cheekbones -- the highlighted parts of his face. Nate rubbed the light paint on the shadowed areas and they switched. Dan changed out of his PE gear and into cammie pants, a dark t-shirt, and then swiped both tubes to matte out his already dark face. John gave them the once-over. Nate's blond hair was hidden by his dark knit cap and both he and Dan were dark enough not to need one.
As Firsties, John and Dan had managed to procure a room that was in the back hallway and next to a stairwell, so they managed to get downstairs without being noticed. The second classmen had all returned from liberty by midnight and the ones on weekend were still out in town drinking.
They stayed in the shadows, next to buildings, and could hear the watch patrols and a squadron of doolies off to commit some bit of mischief in the name of spirit. John beckoned toward the falconry and its attached sheds.
John peered inside, glancing over the stall and the lone figure leaning a chair against the wall. He eased back and held up one finger. Walker nodded. He was by far the largest of the trio and since one door meant a frontal assault, he'd be in charge of incapacitating the guard. John held up his hand, five fingers spread, and tucked each one in slowly. When he had a fist, Walker went in. Two beats later, John and Nate followed him.
The squid was putting up a struggle, but Walker had gotten a beefy arm around his neck and swung him against the wall where he proceeded to cut off the kid's air with his forearm. John unwound the lengths of rope he'd wrapped around his waist, under his inside-out sweatshirt, and waited for Dan to do his thing. A moment later, the squid sagged. Dan pulled him around and eased his grip. John checked the kid's breathing and, satisfied with the air expelled on his hand, nodded at Dan to put him back in the chair. John bound his hands and feet to the arms and legs of the chair and knotted a handkerchief around his eyes. He used a second handkerchief to gag the kid but didn't make it tight.
Satisfied that they'd eliminated the guard, he turned his attention to the stall. Inside, Bill XXVI slept, snoring. John hadn't known goats snored. He also hadn't expected Bill to be quite so large. Or dirty.
"That is one ugly motherfucker," Dan muttered, looping rope around the goat's back legs.
"No shit," Nate agreed, taking care of the front end.
"You guys go ahead," John ordered softly. "I'm going to wait for the squid to wake up and then I'll meet you at the hangar."
They nodded and shuffled off with Bill between them, and John sat back on his heels. He didn't have to wait long.
"Name, rank, and serial number," he said when the kid moved his head and made a noise.
Angry and very muffled sounds came from beneath the gag. John believed he was being cursed out by a mere plebe.
"Hey," he said, resting a hand on the top of the kid's head. The noises quieted. "I'm going to ask you a question. If the answer is yes, grunt once. If it's no, grunt twice. Can you breathe?" One grunt. He sounded, John thought in inappropriate amusement, disgruntled. "Do you have circulation in your hands and feet?" A pause while the kid wiggled his hands and tried to move his feet. One grunt. "It's not personal, plebe," John said. "You'll be ok until morning." Just to be an ass, he patted the kid on the head and took off at a run. He met Dan and Nate coming out of the unused hangar on the airfield that they'd picked out earlier that week for storage of Bill XXVI.
Nods from both told John that the mission was accomplished and Bill was tucked safely away until later. He beckoned them back toward the main campus. Two miles later, they were safely in Dan and John's room, wiping their faces and pulling off sweaty clothes.
"Can you imagine the squids' faces when their goat's gone and their guard's tied up?" Dan asked, leaning forward and slapping his knee. He roared with laughter.
"Man, that thing weighed a ton," Nate added. He was grinning and John could feel the excitement pouring off him. It was contagious.
"We shall live in infamy, gentlemen," he said with mock solemnity. "Go Air Force. Beat Navy."
"I need a shower," Dan said, grabbing his towel. "That fucker stank to high heaven."
John grinned at him and Dan grinned back, nodding. "Get rid of the evidence," he said.
The door closed behind Dan, leaving Nate and John alone.
"God, what a rush," Nate rasped, and pressed himself up against John. John could feel his cock, hard in his utility pants, and sealed his mouth against Nate's, giving in to the energy thrumming through his body. He swept his tongue through Nate's mouth, pulled back and sucked lightly at his lower lip, and then dove back in, letting his hands clutch at Nate's swimmer's shoulders. Nate moved his hips against John's leg, his hand large and warm on John's neck.
John dragged his mouth away with a gasp and Nate bent his head to tongue John's Adam's apple. He felt Nate's hand between his legs, through his pants, and wanted to come.
"I could blow you right here," Nate whispered. "We could be done before Dan gets back."
John wanted to say yes, wanted to end a perfect prank night with a perfect orgasm but the risk made the back of his neck tingle and his chest seize up. He got off on risk, he told himself, but not this much risk. This was just stupid. Tomorrow night, he told himself, pushing Nate away gently. Tomorrow night they could go out drinking, in civvies, and drive out somewhere in Nate's T-Bird and park and neck and blow each other until 0100.
"Guilday," he said with as sarcastic a smirk as he could muster, pushing arm's length with a squarely planted palm. "Fuck, no. You smell like goat."
Atlantis, Pegasus Galaxy, 2005
"Major!" John had spotted the back of Lorne's head as he'd turned the corner and broke into a jog to catch up with the other man.
"Colonel," Lorne greeted him back, pausing and stepping to the side of the hall so they could walk side-by-side.
"We have a problem," John said, matching strides with Lorne.
Lorne raised his eyebrows.
"We need to up the morale by next week or risk Dr. Weir holding a talent competition," John explained. "And by Dr. Weir, I mean me and McKay. And by me and McKay I mean -- "
"Me and Zelenka," Lorne finished.
John grinned humorlessly. Lorne was a great 2IC. He already had a firm grasp of the situation.
"Right. So. We need some morale. In a hurry. Are we on the same page?" He raised his eyebrows at Lorne.
"Yes, sir," Lorne said with a fair degree of enthusiasm. "I'll get right on that."
"Good man," John said, clapping him on the back. "Please don't give me details."
US Air Force Academy, Colorado Springs, 1988
Lorne spent four hours shifting between enraged and humiliated, and by the time Mulveny and Brad Connolly came to relieve him, he'd almost managed to work the gag out.
He'd expected to get flamed for losing Bill but they seemed pretty intent on blaming the zoomies and ensuring Lorne wasn't any worse for the wear after his hours of captivity.
The next two hours were sort of a blur, as Mulveny reported the theft of Bill to their officer advisor and Lieutenant Hill passed the message up the USAFA chain of command until Lorne was sitting in the Commandant of Cadets' office, assuring him that no damage had come to his person. He thought about adding that whoever had tied him up had taken special consideration to ensure his safety, but he wasn't feeling that charitable.
Lieutenant Hill turned them loose at 0800, reminding them to be ready to ride over to the game at noon. He was pretty pissed and Lorne was feeling pretty guilty.
"We need to go find Bill," he said. "We've got four hours. Whoever took him is going to be up and moving around."
"You don't think they're just going to make him AWOL for the game?" Brad asked doubtfully.
"I wouldn't," Lorne said. "I'd pull some prank to embarrass us and show that Bill's not there."
Mulveny and Connolly exchanged amused glances. "You know," Connolly said slowly, "it'd be a shame if the zoomies wound up missing their bird, too."
"It would," Mulveny agreed. "Ok. We'll go look into snatching the falcon, you go look for the goat. We'll come help out if there's too many people around.
Lorne tossed off a mock salute and followed Mulveny and Connolly to the falconry and Bill's empty stall.
Atlantis, Pegasus Galaxy, 2005
"McKay to Sheppard."
John thought that he hadn't heard that tone of contempt and displeasure in Rodney's summons since, well, at least a week ago.
"Sheppard here," he said, touching the radio. He was five yards away from the jumper bay. Four. Three.
"You're needed in the lab yesterday," Rodney snapped. "Whatever you're about to insist you need to do is nowhere near as important as what is going on here."
John opened his mouth, closed it again, and executed a marching pivot at the jumper bay doors. They opened for him anyway. He felt like a tease.
"I'm on my way," he said as pleasantly as he could and reminded himself that Rodney have given him a spectacular blow job that morning and he hadn't even had to give up a Power Bar.
Chaos greeted him at the lab.
"What is going on?" he asked, shoving past Kavanaugh to get to Rodney.
Rodney thrust a piece of paper into his hand. "This is what is going on," he said. His voice was strident and irritated -- that specific note of strident and irritated that meant Rodney was one wrong word away from losing it.
John took the note silently, not willing to contribute that one wrong word.
WE HAVE YOUR CAT-THING,
the note read.
That was it.
"This is it?" John said, holding up the note between his index and middle fingers. "No ransom demand? No indication of motive?"
He was very impressed that he managed to say all three sentences with a straight face.
"That's it," Rodney confirmed. "I insist -- I demand that you start an investigation at once and find out who would do such a thing. Quark is very special to the science team and now she's alone. In the hands of -- of the fiend that did this."
John nodded and chewed on his bottom lip. This was entirely his fault. Lorne had completely interpreted his request incorrectly, but really, given their history, this was John's fault. Granted, this was going to amuse the Marines for months but it also meant that Rodney and most likely the rest of the science team would be pissy beyond belief for -- well, for as long as it took Lorne and the Marines to get bored or the science team to run across something new and fun and forget about Quark.
Sadly, the impact on John's personal life, most notably his blow job schedule, was going to be considerable.
US Air Force Academy, Colorado Springs, 1988
Saturday morning formation was the usual sleepy affair, cadets lined up in PE gear and upperclass with red eyes making incoherent announcements before stumbling back to bed for a few hours.
A Naval Academy exchange cadet, a Second Class, had been assigned to the squadron a floor down and he'd been found duct-taped to a chair with the words, "Go Air Force, Beat Navy" written on his chest in blue ink. The Squadron Commander intoned doom unto anyone who may have participated in such a heinous act, reminded everyone of the time and location to be in formation and ready to go for that afternoon's game, and stumbled into the wardroom. A few seconds later, television sounds blared.
John looked at his doolies, who were looking a little red around the eyes themselves, and thought of the Navy midshipman he'd left tied up in Bill's stall. He walked down the line and paused in front of them.
"How you feeling, Kaplan?" he asked.
"Outstanding, sir!"
John nodded. "You guys have a productive evening?"
The chorus of "Sir, yes, sir," was a little less assertive than Kaplan's enthusiastic answer.
"Good," he said cheerfully. "Go memorize some rates or do some Calculus. I'm going back to bed."
Formation broke up and Nate caught up with John and Dan as they headed back to their room in the back hallway.
"Phase two, gentlemen," John said, stripping off his drawstring shorts and the 1986 Air Force/Navy game t-shirt from his Third Class year. He pulled a regulation undershirt over his head and stepped into his flight suit, zipping it up to his collarbone.
"Are you going to have time to get into uniform?" Dan asked, pulling on his own flight suit.
"Yeah, it'll be a pinch but I'll be ok."
"You'll have my squad, right?" Nate asked, getting into the flight suit he'd left in John and Dan's room the night before.
"Yeah, I'll take them," John said. "You have the gear?"
"Right here." Nate grinned. "Bill's about to become a zoomie."
They ran downstairs, no one looking at them twice in their flight suits. Saturday morning training, they all assumed, guessing that firstie laziness hadn't yet taken hold.
"Y'know, there was no announcement at morning quarters," Nate said. "You think they found him already?"
That idea slowed their pace a bit.
"No," John said decisively. "If they'd found him already, they'd be screaming bloody murder over who had taken him and tied up the squid. That they haven't said anything means they're trying not to humiliate the middies." They jogged past the falconry and John had a flash of guilt. "I'm going to check the shed," he said. "I just want to make sure the kid we tied up got out of there."
"Well, hurry," Dan told him. "And be careful. It's like returning to the scene of the crime, man."
"I will," John promised and sprinted off in the other direction. There was a clutch of cadets from the falconry team gathered around the building and John saw a guy he knew from class. "Hey," he said, approaching. "I was on my way to the airfield -- "
"Shep! Dude, someone stole the goat!"
John blinked.
"Seriously! The Navy mascot! Someone took it! They're trying to keep it all hush-hush but they came in today," his classmate said, jerking his head toward the stall, "and the goat was gone and their guard all tied up. Man, I wish I'd gotten to see it!"
John spent a few seconds agreeing that it had been a great prank and faked an urgent need to get to the airfield. He had to take an emergency detour off the trail when he realized the officer walking the trail three hundred yards in front of him was his squadron Air Officer Commanding, Captain Davis. He stumbled along parallel to the trail for another mile and emerged into the field undetected. He was only about a hundred yards away from the hangar when Dan and Nate burst out, looking disheveled.
"John," Nate said. "Bill is gone."
Atlantis, Pegasus Galaxy, 2005
The worst part of the Quark Incident, John realized quickly, was avoiding Elizabeth. As usual, she was right on top of everything that happened in Atlantis and there was no way John could swear complete innocence -- or ignorance -- over Quark's disappearance. And Elizabeth had an almost maternal instinct about guilt.
The second worst part of the Quark Incident, John realized a little less quickly, was avoiding Rodney. Fortunately, it was generally easy to hear Rodney before seeing him, and that kept John on the move for quite a while.
John was walking down the hallway to Lorne's room to check up on Quark when he saw Weir reflected in one of the shiny baubles standing at the junction of two halls. He turned on his heel and went resolutely the other way, walking right into Rodney.
"There you are," Rodney snapped, grabbing John's forearm. "Why aren't you on radio?"
"I was working out," John protested, which had been true four hours ago.
"Well, I just thought you should know," Rodney hissed, checking the hallway for eavesdroppers. "We suspect the Marines."
"We?" John repeated, so he didn't have to feign indignity that Rodney would suspect his people.
"Science team," Rodney said shortly. "We're sure they have Quark and we've cut off hot water and climate controls to those quarters."
"You've what?" John asked, forgetting to keep his voice low.
"Shh!" Rodney's quarters weren't far, down the hall and around the corner, and John found himself dragged there and behind the door in seconds. "We've cut off hot water, AC, heat, all that, from the Marines until they give up Quark. Your quarters are fine, of course, because we all know you're on our side, and if someone screws up, you know you can just come stay with me."
John blinked. "I'm on your side?" he said dumbly.
"Everyone's seen you slip cheese and...stuff...for Quark. They know you love her."
John felt intensely guilty.
"Rodney," he said hesitantly and then stopped. He couldn't sell out Lorne, not when this was mostly his own fault, anyway.
"Look, I know you've been working hard on this investigation thing," Rodney said. "I haven't seen you for a day and a half. We're just trying to help out some."
John nodded slowly.
"So," Rodney said, eagerness bleeding into his expression. "What have you found out?"
"Um." Stall, stall, he told himself. "I've got some leads," he said slowly and did Rodney just lean forward? "The thing is," he amended, "I'm trying to keep it quiet, y'know? Put some feelers out, lay a few tracks, wait for the guilty party to hang himself. And I'm afraid if I tell anyone exactly what I'm doing, the...culprit...will get suspicious."
Rodney's face fell a little and the guilt was back in force.
"All right," he said. "I understand."
"I'm sorry," John said with as much faux reluctance as he could offer.
"It's ok." Rodney smiled a brave, lopsided smile. John had a sense of impending doom. "I just...got used to having her around. She licked my face in the morning and was there when I came home and I feel like I failed her! I let some awful men take her away and who knows what they're feeding her!"
John cringed. They were going to have to talk.
"You know, it's just like that dog I had when I was eight. My father wouldn't pay for a license and so when it got out and disappeared, there was nothing they could do to track it and -- you know what would really help right now?"
John hoped his horror wasn't visible on his face. They were going to have to talk about feelings. "What?" he asked, raising one eyebrow and preparing to bolt for the door.
Rodney's gaze was sincere. "A comfort blow job."
"Oh." Well. That would absolutely cut down on the talking. John could do that. John could definitely do that. "I can do that," he said, stepping closer to Rodney.
"Good, because I'm really starting to miss her and I'm wondering whether she's homesick and it would be really nice to have some company to take my mind off the whole thing -- "
John helped Rodney take his mind off the whole thing by sticking his tongue down Rodney's throat. That took care of the talking thing nicely, and by the time he got Rodney stripped down and sprawled across his bed, there was no question that Rodney's mind was definitely off anything regarding small alien cats.
John was feeling extremely sensitive and comforting when he finally eased off and wiped his mouth. He was just unbuttoning his own pants for a little comfort of his own when Rodney sat straight up.
"That's it!" he exclaimed, jumping off the bed rather spryly for someone claiming bonelessness thirty seconds earlier and hopped around the room, trying to get his legs into the correct part of his pants.
"Um," John said, watching Rodney yank a shirt over his head and glanced down at his own uncomforted anatomy.
"I've got an idea!" Rodney called, doing up his pants and trying to stand on one foot to put his boots on. He crashed heavily against the wall but managed to stay upright. "We should be able to find her in no time!" He hopped into his other boot and was out the door before John could call after him again.
"Gee, Rodney," he said to the room. "Glad I could help."
He rolled his eyes, adjusted himself so not to be obvious, and drank a glass of water from Rodney's sink. Sufficiently calmed, he ventured back into the hallway, glad there was no one around to see him walking out of McKay's room with McKay nowhere to be found.
Lorne's quarters weren't far away and it was a good thing, because John needed Quark back, and now. He wasn't sure if Rodney had caught on to his complicity or if he was just channeling the Absent-Minded Professor, but he had to put an end to it right now.
And maybe, if he was lucky, he'd get a blow job of gratitude from the deal.
He steeled himself and knocked on Lorne's door. It took the Major so long to answer that John almost turned away and called him on the radio.
"Yeah, did you -- Colonel."
John looked Lorne over carefully. He was wearing mesh shorts that had lost most of their elastic, a Property of the US Air Force t-shirt that was soaked in sweat and had at least a dozen small rips throughout the torso and no sleeves, and his face had a nasty red scratch down one cheek. His hair was spiked up in a sorry imitation of John's own style.
"Cut yourself shaving?" John asked, nodding at the scratch.
"That cat," Lorne said, belatedly tacking a, "Colonel," on the end, "is a hellbeast."
"Well," John said, smirking. "I guess it's a good thing I've come to take her off your hands, then. We've driven McKay crazy enough and I'm sure you guys want your hot water back on." ...And John wanted his Blow Job of Gratitude.
"Oh, the hot water's just the start of it," Lorne said darkly. "Trust me, Colonel, I would love to give that thing back to McKay."
"And the problem with this is?" John asked, feeling his Blow Job of Gratitude slip away.
Lorne's face took on a helpless cast and it was all John could do to wait until Lorne said the actual words before dropping his face into his hands and groaning.
"Colonel, Quark's gone."
US Air Force Academy, Colorado Springs, 1988
"What do you mean, 'Bill is gone'?" John asked in his most controlled voice. "Bill is a goat. How is the goat gone?"
"Chewed through the damn ropes," Dan said, holding the soggy remains of the tether.
"Well, we have to find it," John said, voice rising on the last words.
"It probably hasn't gone far," Dan suggested. "Let's split up and see if we can find it. I mean hell, it's a goat, it's not like it's going to be hard to recognize."
John pulled a face and turned away. "Guilday," he said, "give me the stuff."
"You sure?" Nate asked, handing him the small pouch.
"Yeah. Look, we have about an hour until anybody misses us," John said. "We'll split up and search, if either of you two find it, come back this way and find me. If you don't find it, go on back. I'll look for as long as I can and bring out the cart when I find it. Captain Davis loves me. I can risk the AWOL if we don't find him."
"If we don't find him," Dan said, "you can come back with us and it's like it never happened. Someone will find the damn thing. They probably already have."
John looked at his friends. Dan was probably right but John hated leaving loose ends.
"Let's see if we can find it first," he said, hoping to be able to put off the decision at all. They split up into three directions. Nate and Dan went to the check the other hangars. John started toward another hangar, then decided to go back to where they had been keeping Bill. The bits of food they'd scavenged from the mess hall were gone and John wondered if they hadn't donated enough. Goats were trash compactors, he knew, and if Bill was hungry -- and wily -- enough to chew through his rope, he might have gone looking for more to eat. He walked the runways for a few minutes and almost immediately found patches of masticated grass.
He followed the trail, backtracking twice when he went too far, and pausing when he reached the airstrip. A DHC-6 Twin Otter sat on the tarmac, engine engaged, and left cargo door open. The Academy used them for training cadets in rapid aircraft egress -- skydiving. John had been up in one dozens of times, but this one didn't seem to have a passenger manifest. Everyone was supposed to be at the game.
Bad news he thought with one last glance back at the hangars. Guilday and Walker were nowhere in sight. The DHC-6 was the only thing on the runway and its engines were engaged. Before he really thought about what he was doing, John had dashed up the little metal staircase on the side of the Twin Otter and started looking under the tarps and O2 canisters and jump packs stowed in the back.
He was so busy looking for Bill the Goat, he almost didn't hear the attack from behind.
Part Two