Changing of the Guard 3: Be All That You Can Be 8/22 [PG13] xover
Ecolea (ecolea@WT.NET)
Mon, 24 Sep 2001 23:07:22 GMT
Part Two
Chapter 9
It was cold and raining. Miserable weather for training. Perfect
weather for it too, O'Neill thought as he strolled to the little
canteen everyone had taken to calling Joe's. It was definitely
not regulation for a training camp, but when your youngest
recruit was over four hundred years old and had served in nearly
every major conflict during those last four centuries sometimes
you had to be flexible.
He passed the little corral where the goats were kept, returning
Amanda's salute without smiling. Of all the Immortals she was
perhaps the most intractable. Independent, narcissistic, and
devious. He wondered vaguely why she and Methos weren't married.
"Morning, Colonel," Joe called out as he entered. The place was
empty and O'Neill pulled off his rain poncho, carefully hanging
it on a peg near the door.
"Same to you, Sergeant," he grinned as he went to fetch himself a
cup of coffee. "Lovely weather we're having."
Dawson chuckled. "Somehow I thought being on another planet would
be different."
O'Neill took a seat at the same table where Joe was reading the
day's paper. One of the small luxuries the SGC provided the half
dozen training camps scattered throughout the area.
"You'd think," he agreed, sipping his coffee. "Most of 'em are
dirt balls. Too hot, too cold, too many snakeheads popping in
from time to time."
"Yeah," Joe sighed. "I guess it was too much to hope that things
would be different out here," he nodded toward the universe in
general. "Nice, friendly folks -- maybe a little different in
looks than us, but hell, willing to be sociable."
"They're out here," O'Neill admitted. "Lot's of 'em, too. But
they have their own problems and their own agendas. If life's
taught me anything," he added with a hint of bitterness. "It's
that you can't count on the kindness of strangers."
Joe nodded sadly. "So," he asked, changing the subject. "What's
on the menu for today?"
O'Neill grinned. "Marching. Lots and lots of marching. And then
out to the firing range."
"They're gonna love you."
O'Neill shrugged. "To be honest, I'm really surprised at how
little most of them know about modern weapons technology. I
thought... I thought Pierson was pretty typical, but I guess I
was wrong."
Joe had to smile. "Methos is about the most atypical Immortal
there is. Usually Immortals find a niche and just stick with it.
Methos... I suppose he doesn't like to limit himself. And he's
lived long enough to figure out that it's dangerous to be
predictable."
O'Neill simply nodded. "Actually," he began. "I've been meaning
to ask you something." Dawson raised an eyebrow, sipped his
coffee and waited. "You ever hear of an Immortal named
Ku'ahktar?"
Joe nearly choked on the hot liquid, hurriedly setting down the
cup before he spilled it. "How the hell--?" And then it dawned on
him. The only place O'Neill was likely hear that name was from an
Immortal. A really, really old Immortal. "Yeah," he muttered.
"I've heard of him. Every Watcher has. He's part of the training
manual, listed under worst of the worst. Even dead he's a prime
example of just how bad an Immortal can become. And," he added
with a sigh. "One theory has it that he invented the Game. Out of
boredom."
"Boredom," O'Neill repeated and Dawson nodded.
"We don't have anything on him earlier than 1800 BC, but he was
old even then. Maybe by several thousand years according to one
chronicle. He was a warlord who liked to hunt the most vicious
animals he could track."
"And he liked to train Immortals to hunt them later," O'Neill
prompted.
Joe sighed and nodded. "Yup, that's about the size of it. By all
accounts his training methods were pretty brutal. Death by
whipping, boiling, crushing for making even the smallest mistake.
One chronicle claims he even walled an Immortal into a cesspit
for ten years because the Immortal dropped his sword during
training."
"I take it sanity wasn't high on his list of desirable
qualities."
"Doesn't seem that way," Dawson agreed. "And he didn't have much
use for mortals either. They were just so much cannon fodder for
his trainees."
O'Neill nodded. "So any Immortal coming out of his training
program was likely to be psychotic no matter how sane they were
going in."
"Probably."
They were quiet for a long time as they each contemplated one
particular Immortal and what they knew of him until O'Neill rose
to leave.
"So, uh, Adam coming back anytime soon?" Joe asked casually.
O'Neill shook his head. "He and Daniel are working on a backlog
of translations. And there's not much either of them needs to be
here for. In fact, in a couple of days I'm going to be pulling
out."
"You think Bear can handle 'em?"
O'Neill smiled grimly. "I think Drill Sergeant Bear can handle
just about anything."
***
"AND WHAT ASS BACKWARD SHIT HEAP DID YOU CRAWL OUT OF THIS
MORNING?!"
MacLeod winced inwardly as Bear focused his ire on Gina. Like the
rest of them she was aching and exhausted, looking the worse for
wear in a uniform none of them seemed to be able to get clean. On
the other hand, the man in charge of their training looked fresh
as a daisy even dripping with rain and muddy. Still, like the
rest of the Immortals, MacLeod respected the sergeant, who pushed
them harder than any mortal ever would have knowing their lack of
limitations. Needless to say, Alexander practically doted on the
man.
The dressing down went on as each Immortal and finally Martouf,
though he was technically just an observer, were the recipients
of a few choice words and some not so choice comments. It was to
be expected of course, and they all understood the purpose of it.
Having been raised in strict if not down right brutally
disciplined households -- and equally harsh societies -- they
each came to this with the knowledge that they were in fact being
treated quite humanely. Pushups as opposed to lashes. Goat guard
instead of time in the stocks. Infractions once punishable by
violence and degradation as a matter of course were now corrected
through repetitively annoying jobs like cleaning the latrine or
doing KP -- and no one escaped any of those particularly onerous
chores. The process was designed to break them down and build
them up into a team through shared hardship and camaraderie.
Except, MacLeod thought worriedly, it wasn't really working.
"Look at yourself, Darieux !" Sergeant Bear shouted. "Two weeks
and you still can't even dress yourself properly. DON'T YOU WANT
TO BE THE BEST?!"
"Now that you mention it," Amanda growled back. "No!"
Beside MacLeod Robert snorted and Bear whipped around to face
him.
"You think this is funny, de Valicourt?"
"No, Drill Sergeant!"
"Well, I do!" Bear yelled. "I think it's fucking hysterical! You
got a problem with that?!"
"No, Drill Sergeant!"
"I think she's a laugh a minute!" he shouted getting into the
man's face. "I think she's so goddamned funny you could take
lessons in funny from her! In fact, you can find out just how
funny she is while you're both cleaning out the latrine!"
"Yes, Drill Sergeant!"
"Anybody else got a pithy comment to make?" The Drill Sergeant
stood back, frowning in disgust while looking them over. "You are
the sorriest bunch of recruits I've ever seen!" he repeated for
what must have been the hundredth time since they'd arrived.
"Someone ought to take your heads just to save the world from
your ineptitude! But for some reason the Air Force wants you! And
whether you like it or not you are going to be THE BEST! You are
going to be PERFECT! You are going to be SOLDIERS! Do I make
myself clear?!"
"Yes, Drill Sergeant!" they shouted in unison.
"I can't hear you!"
"YES, DRILL SERGEANT!"
"Now MOVE OUT!"
They turned as one and started marching, Sergeant Bear setting
the pace with a frighteningly warped cadence that began, "OAK!
Lahoma! Where the heads go rollin' down the plains..."
Halfway down the line MacLeod grimaced. It was going to be
another long hard day in the field and he didn't know whether he
ought to thank Hammond for finding Bear, or curse the day the
mortal was born. Still, whatever happened, he hoped the sergeant
succeeded. Because as things stood now the only mission they'd
likely ever be going on would be extended leave.
Chapter 10
The immediate sensation of an Immortal in the vicinity startled
Methos from his late night reverie. Putting aside his journal he
reached for his sword and moved with alacrity to take a position
where he wouldn't easily be seen. With nearly every Immortal he
called friend a quarter of a billion light years away this
midnight caller to his home in Colorado Springs wasn't likely to
be someone with which he wanted to party.
The door bell rang and he frowned in puzzlement. "Captain
Pierson?!" a man's voice called out to him. "It's Drill Sergeant
Bear. Colonel O'Neill sent word I'd be coming."
An Immortal Drill Sergeant? he thought, grinning widely. Wherever
had they found him?
Not yet comfortable putting aside his weapon in the presence of a
strange Immortal, Methos held it with the blade resting against
his shoulder as he went to answer the door. He unlocked it and
stepped back as it swung open, his body tensed defensively.
"Evening, sir," the man nodded, ignoring the blade as he stepped
inside. "Thank you for seeing me on such short notice."
"You're welcome," Methos responded, mildly amused at the
fearlessness of his guest. Most Immortals would have gone through
the "we have no quarrel," song and dance before getting anywhere
near him. Either Bear was absolutely certain he wouldn't swing or
he really didn't care.
"May I offer you a drink, Sergeant?"
Methos sheathed his blade and padded into the living room as Bear
followed.
"No thank you, sir. I have to get back fairly quickly."
"Of course," Methos murmured taking a seat as his guest found a
place on the sofa. "What can I do for you, Bear?"
"I need some information. Information I've been led to believe
you might be able to share with me."
"And that would be?"
"You've known most of the men and women I'm training for quite
some time, is that correct?"
"At one time or another, yes," Methos agreed cautiously.
"I'm guessing that makes you pretty old."
Methos shrugged. "I've been around a while," he answered
noncommittally.
Bear nodded as if confirming something he'd already suspected.
"Personally, Captain, I don't care how old you are. The Game
doesn't interest me in the least. What does interest me is making
a real team out of my trainees."
"How can I help?" Methos asked curiously.
"I'm not sure if you can," Bear admitted. "But it's been implied
that you might know something about a similar situation. Or at
least the idea of making a team out of a group of strong willed,
independent and idiosyncratic Immortals."
Methos shook his head and rose to get a drink. "Trust me, Bear,
you don't want to go there."
"I need to go there, Pierson," he insisted. "It's been over three
weeks. They should be gelling by now. Focused on achieving a
unified goal. But they're not. They do the drill. They work
together when needed. But there's no emotion in it. No bonding.
No sense of...of..."
"Brotherhood?" Methos asked over his shoulder as he hurriedly
swallowed a shot, pouring himself another just as quickly.
"Exactly," the Drill Sergeant nodded. "No sense of camaraderie at
all. It's as if they were still acquaintances forced by
circumstances to work together. "
"We're Immortals," Methos reminded him returning to his seat. "We
don't get too close, remember? Not when we spend our recreational
hours training to kill each other."
"But you somehow managed to do it," Bear stated with absolute
certainty and Methos wondered to whom he'd been talking and just
what he really knew. "How?"
Methos took a deep breath and finished his drink. "You have to
get them past the Game," he said quietly. "When who wins and who
loses becomes irrelevant they'll begin to see each other as
something less than possible opponents."
"Is that how you did it? Convinced your...team that the Game was
irrelevant?"
Methos chuckled with bitter amusement. "No," he shook his head.
"We swore a blood oath to never raise a blade against each other.
That for one to kill the other meant whoever was left would take
them down. No challenge, no quarter. Just death."
Bear nodded slowly. "You took the Game out of the equation by
making the consequences disagreeable."
"You could say that," Methos smiled wryly.
"So what was the goal? I mean," he added at Methos' questioning
glance. "What was the point of becoming a unit, and what was the
unit's ultimate objective?"
"You want to know why we became allies?" Methos asked
incredulously.
"It might help," Bear explained. "A direction to point them in
maybe."
"I don't think so," Methos smirked. "You want to create a sane,
well balanced team of equals. I don't think the power and freedom
to pillage and plunder without having to watch your back would
be...palatable to your trainees."
The sergeant simply stared at Methos no doubt reassessing
whatever earlier assumptions he'd made. And Methos stared back,
almost daring the man to question him further.
"You knew Silas," Bear said quietly and Methos nearly leapt from
his seat.
"How do you know that name?!" he demanded angrily.
Bear didn't even blink. "Met him during the Second World War. He
liked killing Nazis and we liked him."
"And he obviously liked to brag," Methos murmured sadly, leaning
back without relaxing.
"I always thought he was a little crazy," Bear admitted. "Methos.
The Four Horsemen," he shrugged. "Myths and legends. I thought it
was all nonsense."
Methos neither confirmed nor denied it. "If you want them to
bond," he stated tersely as he stood and moved toward the door.
"Give them an enemy they can sink their teeth into."
"And the Game?" he was asked as the sergeant followed.
"Talk to MacLeod and Ramirez. They know the truth."
"Which is?"
"It's a lie. All of it. There's no Prize and no point to any of
it."
For the first time Drill Sergeant Bear actually smiled. "That's
good to know."
Methos nodded. If MacLeod and Ramirez could convince them that
the Game wasn't part of the equation Bear might get them to let
down their collective guard and let each other in. At least it
would be a start, he thought, surprised as the man held out a
hand and thanked him for his assistance.
Wordlessly, Methos accepted the friendly gesture for what it was
worth then shut his door with a sigh. It wouldn't be enough, he
knew. The Game, the Goa'uld. The first would ease the way, but
the second... The second was an abstract and negligible,
especially when they felt no personal fear from the creatures.
What they needed was something closer to home. Something more
immediate. Something on which they could focus all their
attention.
With a quiet snarl Methos locked the door and went to pour
himself another drink. He knew what he had to do and the thought
infuriated him. He hadn't wanted a damn strike force of Immortals
in the first place but, he admitted slamming back his drink as he
flung himself into a chair, they were necessary. At least in the
short term. Damn them all for putting him in this position!
With a sigh of disgust Methos rubbed the bridge of his nose. He
needed to talk to Jack, he realized. Needed to outline his own
plans for the strike force. But Jack was off world and Hammond...
Well, protocol said he was supposed to talk to O'Neill first and
O'Neill would then talk to the general, but in order to talk to
Jack he would have to talk to Hammond and get permission to go
through the gate. Which of course meant explaining what they
needed to discuss outside of protocol in the first place.
Methos laughed softly and shook his head. Protocol. The bane of
his current existence and the answer to his prayers.
"Oh, this is going to be fun," he murmured with a wry grimace. He
rose and stretched, putting his glass in the sink as he passed
the kitchen on his way to bed. Tomorrow, he thought. I'll worry
about it tomorrow. After all, the darkest plans were always best
laid out in the bright light of day.
***