Chapter Text
You never thought this is how your professional life would begin. You always imagined that you’d start out as an adjunct professor at some prestigious university, make your students fall in love with you somehow, get glowing evaluations, publish groundbreaking articles about diplomacy and culture, and make tenure, all the while living out what was left of your twenties and seducing hot guys at the karaoke bar.
That had been your destiny, your dream since you entered college, blowing through undergrad in two years. Those sleepless nights during your double JD-Masters program (you shudder when you remember the hell that was those three years) and the cheap meals during graduate school. All of that would have been worth it. You had seen your life clearly laid out in front of you, everything you could have accomplished. Throughout your academic career, professors were giving you glowing recommendations, saying you were one of the brightest minds of your generation. You planned out your life in decades, a concise plan that if followed would allow you to live out your dreams and the expectations of everyone around you.
Well, turns out life had other plans and your professional career would begin running through the sudden downpour of rain, holding a briefcase over your head. Even with rain like this, you’re hesitant to risk the ridicule and potential violence that comes with the sight of rain suddenly bending off of your body. Oh well.
You’re out of breath by the time you reach the entrance to the Cheyenne Mountain complex and you’re silently cursing your luck. Your hair is ruined and a quick swipe under your eyes confirms that your mascara is in fact running.
“Fuck,” you mutter, your grip on your briefcase tightening. You step to the side as an Airman enters the lobby and you give him a tight smile. “Nice weather we’re having,” you say and he gives you a side-eye. Doublefuck.
“Identification, please,” he says blandly.
Sighing, you grab the rain-slick, plastic cards from your blazer pocket. You watch him closely as he looks dispassionately at your driver’s license and wait for when he gets to the other. You note the exact moment he reads your registration card. Mutant , it reads, tertiary tier, 4/5. Fighting the feeling of shame, you hold out your hands for your cards.
He wordlessly hands them back, his eyes wide. You’re used to this reaction when people look at your code and find out what you are, and what you can do. “You can wait here, Dr. Peterson,” he says, and you applaud him for keeping his composure. He walks to the reception desk and talks into a walkie-talkie.
Realizing you have a moment to fix your appearance so you no longer resemble a goth goon, you quickly get to work. You pull out your compact from your soaked blazer compact. There was no sign of rain in the forecast, but God just had to fuck with you today. You try and imagine what your mentors would have done in this scenario. Wren would have confidently stridden into the meeting, no matter what she would look like. However, you’re going to pull a Richards approach- spend five minutes doing damage control and try to keep your dignity.
You wipe the mascara off under your eyes and blink onto your finger, trying to give your lashes any natural lift. Your hair is pretty much a lost cause but you dig around in your briefcase and find bobby pins and pin the sides of your hair back. A slicked-back look will do.
Sighing, you peel off your blazer and suddenly wish you had fire powers, and mourn your outfit. It was good. Great. Excellent. Just the kind of look you needed to enter an interview you knew nothing about. The Major you had spoken to on the phone had been vague, throwing around words like “top-secret,” “groundbreaking,” “serving humanity,” yada, yada, yada.
You normally don’t buy into that kind of patriotic bullshit (you just got your PhD in international relations, for God’s sake, you usually despise the military) but, unfortunately, jobs weren’t lining up. The job market wasn’t quite what it used to be, and with the current state of affairs, no one was keen on hiring diplomats. Especially mutant diplomats, no matter what credentials and recommendations you have.
You start to reflect on the phone call with the Major, Davis, if you remember correctly, as you begin the lengthy process of checking into the Mountain. A little too lengthy, for a deep-space telemetry program, going beyond your ID cards and a mile of paperwork.
It all started after you published this article a few weeks ago. A just for fun article, if you will, spun up in the anxious pacing between submitting job applications. You stumbled upon this paper published a few years ago by a Dr. Daniel Jackson. He had theorized that the pyramids were built by aliens as landing platforms for giant ships. Yeah, right.
You didn’t believe it, of course. It was crazy. It sounded like something your great Aunt Guinevere would come up with when she got too drunk on Christmas. But, you were intrigued. Not by the pyramid part. But the alien part.
If there had been an alien race out there somewhere, far more advanced than any society on Earth was and is, what would the diplomatic process be like? Of course, there’d be a major power imbalance, even under the best assumption they weren’t hostile. And then there would be the linguistics issue of translation and mistranslation, social and cultural assumptions and misconceptions, legal differences, and a mountain of other issues.
And that’s assuming the aliens would be human, or close to it.
So, you spun up an article. It was fun to write. Sci-fi had always fascinated you (mutants were practically a piece of living science fiction), and you double-majored in undergrad, physics, and political science, and you could guess at some of the more Star Trek aspects. But, it was less of a summer blockbuster movie, and more of an analogy for diplomatic relations on Earth.
It had been well received in your circles, and the praise you got from your mentors felt like a child being patted on the head after drawing a picture. You had hoped it would grab the attention of some big names, but your inbox stayed decisively empty afterward.
And then the Air Force came calling.
The elevator dings and you blink out of your thoughts. A sergeant is standing in the elevator, a pleasant smile on his face. “Good morning, Dr. Peterson. I’m Sergeant Walter Harriman. I’ll be taking you to meet with General Hammond.” Your blazer and briefcase drip water onto the floor and you grimace, stepping around it and into the elevator.
“Nice to meet you, Sergeant,” you reply, reaching out and shaking his hand. The elevator lurches downwards and you steady yourself with a hand on the wall. Behind his glasses, his eyes flicker to your dripping blazer that’s draped over your arm and the puddle forming where you stand. Blushing, you say, “I got caught in the storm.”
“Yeah, came out of nowhere, didn’t it?” he remarks sympathetically. “The General will be understanding, don’t worry,” he adds, seeing the look on your face.
“Ah, right, thanks,” you get out. The elevator doors open and you indicate that the Sergeant should go first. “Ready whenever you are.” He nods and steps out, and you use that moment to hang your blazer up on the coat rack to dry.
Your shoes squeak on the ground as you follow the sergeant down the hall. Looking around at the hubbub of the Mountain, you notice the Airmen walking determinedly, the weapons on their belt, and the sense of urgency permeating the air. Two scientists walk past you, bickering amongst themselves, a strange device in their hands. You frown, opening your mouth to say “Sergeant, what-”
“All in due time, Doctor,” he says, throwing the words over his shoulder.
You’re pretty sure the people here weren’t studying deep space telemetry. Ducking to avoid the foot traffic, you think back to the look on Wren’s face when you told her about the interview. The mischievous glint in her eyes, the slight smirk on her face. You trusted your mentor, well, for the most part, so you trusted her when she said you wouldn’t regret taking this job.
Sergeant Harriman stops outside of the general’s door and knocks twice. “Come in,” says a voice through the door.
“Dr. Peterson, sir,” Harriman introduces, opening the door. You stand in the doorway, nervously clutching your briefcase.
“Good to see you, Doctor,” Hammon greets, standing up from his desk. “Do come in.”
“Thanks,” you say, nodding at Harriman. He smiles at you and closes the door once you’re in the office. You look around the General’s office, eyes moving quickly over the two flags, and pausing on the cut-out on the right wall. There’s a plastic insert in the cut-out, covered in astronomical symbols, and you can look into the room adjacent to the General’s. Hmm. Interesting.
Taking a seat, you plaster a pleasant smile on your face while you try to bury your anxiety. “It’s good to meet you, General Hammond. My apologies for my appearance, I-”
He waves a hand and sits down, cutting you off. “It is no problem, Doctor. The rain surprised us all. I trust your flight from Boston was well?”
“Yes, sir,” you reply, fidgeting in your seat. “The accommodations are quite nice as well, thank you.”
“Only the best,” he says and you smile. He studies you for a moment and you fidget slightly in your seat. “Doctor, do you like the outdoors?” he asks rather abruptly.
You blink. “Uh, yes, sir, I suppose I do?”
“Ever been camping?” he probes.
“Yes, I used to go all the time when I was a kid, and I would go on breaks from school,” you answer, the confusion rather evident in your voice. “Sir, what is this-”
“Are you active? Do you know how fast you can run a mile?”
These questions are absurd, and you want to tell him that. But that pragmatic little voice in your head is reminding you that you’re pretty broke, with student loans and no prospects. You take a deep breath. “I work out regularly, sir. I can run a ten-minute mile.”
Hammond nods slowly. Clearing his throat, he opens up a file on his desk, and to your surprise, you see your driver’s license photo in it, along with a copy of your registration card. You can feel your heart sinking, your hackles rising. Of course they only wanted you for your powers. This is what the whole cloak and daggers shit was all about. “You’re a tertiary mutant, Doctor?” he asks, looking at something on your file.
“Yes,” you get out. You’ve been asked this question so many times, at every interview, on every job application, any time someone has gotten a look at your registration card and you’re legally obligated to answer. “My primary power is telekinesis. I have fairly strong psionic powers but I am low ranking telepath.”
“And you’re ranked a 4 on the Grey-Munroe scale?”
You silently nod. You weren’t ashamed of being a mutant, per se. You loved your powers and grew up at the best school there was for mutants- Xavier’s. But, when you left Xavier’s and entered the real world, mutant hysteria had been at its highest since the sixties. And being a pretty powerful mutant hadn’t helped you at all.
So, you learned how to hide, make yourself small, and bury yourself in books and academia until your high Grey-Munroe rating was the least noticeable thing about you. You had to protect yourself.
And now, sitting here, in some weird, secret base under a fucking mountain, you felt more seen than you have in a while. Hammond studies you for a moment and you wonder if he can see the fear in your eyes.
He leaned back in his chair and smiles slightly, his demeanor softens. “Apologies for that. Just some preliminary questions before we get into why we’re here. Doctor, everyone we spoke to gave you glowing recommendations.” You relax. You’re in familiar territory now and you feel like you can put back on your disguise broke post-grad, which wasn’t that much of a disguise.
“Your doctorate advisor, Dr. Stephanie Wren, said you’re one of the brightest students to ever come through her program. Your program advisor back at Columbia Law, Dr. Jessica Richards, said you had almost an encyclopedic knowledge of the law and precedent, and several professors from your undergraduate institution noted your curiosity and determination, and your competence in a variety of subjects.”
He leaves it at that, pausing, and looks up at you. You blush, your earlier discomfort easing away, playing with the button on your briefcase. “Uh, yes, sir, many of my professors and advisors throughout my academic career have been quite kind and generous in their observations.”
Hammond leans back in his chair. “Are you saying they’re not true, Doctor?”
“I- uh, no, of course not, sir,” you get out, leaning forward. “It’s just, well,” you trail off, biting your lip, “I just don’t know what use I’d be to a deep space telemetry program. I work with people, General, not machines. And yes, I have some background in physics, but I haven’t studied that in years.”
He studies you for a moment, glancing back down at your file. He pulls out a thick stack of papers and lays them in front of you. “You wrote this, correct?”
You blink, reading the words that stare up at you. So, There’s Aliens: A Brief Look into the Diplomatic Possibilities of Encountering Unknown Worlds. You hold back the swear words that crawl up your throat. Shit. Fuck. Dammit. That was only supposed to be fun, it was never supposed to be taken seriously. But, hey, at least they don’t want to lock me in a dungeon and use me for my powers. You let out a forced laugh. “Oh yes, I suppose I did,” you mumble, your palms growing sweaty. “See, the funny thing is-”
“I’m not here to criticize your work, Doctor,” he interrupts. His eyes are kind, but serious. “You based your paper off of a theory of Dr. Daniel Jackson’s, correct?”
“Yes, sir,” you respond automatically. “Even though Dr. Jackson’s theories, are, well, prespestorus in the least, the implications are incredibly interesting. Our whole understanding of diplomacy and politics would be turned on its head. None of the assumptions that govern our current diplomacy could be applied to this new reality, assuming that the aliens would even consider us equals in the negotiations.”
“I see,” Hammond says. He leans back in his chair. “Do you know why you’re here, Dr. Peterson?”
“Uh, no, sir,” you say slowly. “To be frank, General, the only reason I took this interview-” besides the fact I am horrifically broke and have no other job prospects, you add silently in your head. “-is because my mentor, Dr. Wren, urged me too.”
“Dr. Wren is an incredibly intelligent woman. She turned down a job here, actually, a few months ago.”
“And where is ‘here,’ exactly, sir?” you get in quickly. “I don’t think it’s deep space telemetry,” you add ruefully.
Chuckling, Hammond pulls out another file, thicker than your own. “Dr. Wren mentioned your curiosity and tenacity.” He pauses and looks at you thoughtfully. “She also mentioned that most things are easy for you, that your skills would go to waste in an academic setting.” You feel a scarlet blush crawling up your throat and you bite your lip to hold back the snappy remark. “She emphasized to me, above all else, that you’re in need of a challenge. So, are you up to a challenge of a lifetime?”
“Yes, sir.” You’re surprised by the steadiness and you tilt your head up slightly. Despite your earlier misgivings, Hammond seems trustworthy. Even while asking you questions, he gave off the appearance of stern grandfather rather than a seasoned interrogator. “I’ve been looking for a challenge for quite some time.”
He smiles slightly and places the second file in front of you. “What you’re about to see is classified.”
Nodding, you slowly open up the file to see what looks like cosplayers, with flowers and twigs woven into their hair. “I- sir,” you get out, trying to figure out if you’re being punked. You’ve seen some crazy shit in your life. You lived at Xavier’s for years, hell, you even dated Nightcrawler. But what looks like some dumpster-budget, hippie faeries? You’ve seen it all.
“Assume everything here is true, Doctor. It’ll make it much easier, for the time being. I promise to answer all your questions once we’re through.” Hammond waits for you to nod your head yes before starting again. “In front of you is the report from four individuals employed at this base, and their team is known as SG-1. When they were offworld some time ago-” he pauses, checking for your reaction, and you’re pretty sure your eyes are falling out of your head in disbelief. Offworld, like aliens? You swallow down your questions, looking at Hammond intently. “-they encountered a humanoid species, known as the Nox.”
“These folks?” you question, gesturing to who you thought were cosplayers, and are actually real fucking aliens. Holy shit aliens .
“Yes. After sustaining serious injuries at the hand of the Goa’uld, a species of parasitic aliens whom we are currently at war with, the Nox healed SG-1, and brought them back from death. The Nox displayed other abilities that no one has been able to explain yet, including being able to speak English after not being able to understand only minutes prior, and living to be over four hundred years old.”
“Wow,” you breathe. You’ve never heard of anyone , not even a 5 on the JM scale, bringing someone back to fucking life. “That’s just, insane. Mind-boggling. And-and it’s all in this report? ”
Hammond nods. “Most of SG-1’s report is in front of you.”
“Most of?” You thumb through the papers, noting the first two to be three pages, and the second two to be far longer.
“Yes, most of.” He leans forward slightly. “The Nox displayed pacifist tendencies and when SG-1 told them of hostile, invading alien forces, they did nothing.”
“Nothing?” you repeat, glancing up to look at the General. “Not even leave the area?”
“You are correct. The Nox refused SG-1’s help and refused any weapons to be used on their behalf. Still, SG-1 tried to do what they could to help and defend the Nox.” Hammond stops there and leans back in his chair.
“So? What happened?” you question and flick back to the first report. You note that it stops halfway into a sentence and you frown. “The report seems to be cut off.”
“So it is,” he replies. “Purposefully.” You start to understand what’s going on. He’s trying to test you, see if you’re as great as everyone says you are. “Doctor, my question for you is, with the reports of SG-1 in front of you, what would you have done in their shoes?”
What he asks sounds like the type of questions you prepared for when you took the bar exam back in New York. They’d lay a scenario out before you and you’d have to take what you knew, all the legal theories and precedent, and apply it to the scenario. You hum thoughtfully. “That’s uh, an excellent question. Let me just read through the reports and I’ll get back to you.”
“Of course. Take as long as you need.”
You hold back your snort. If what you thought was going on was in fact going on, he didn’t want someone who took hours to make a decision. He wanted someone who was able to look at the facts, analyze them, then spit out a recommendation. And you were that person.
Pushing aside that these were aliens you were talking about, and the fact you were unsure if any theory you knew applied in this scenario, you could see the puzzle pieces laid out in front of you. The General wanted to know if you would trust the Nox could take care of themselves or that they needed this SG-1 to protect them.
You didn’t really need to look through the reports. You had your mind set once the General had asked you the question, but you wanted to look thorough. The reports of SG-1 lined up with what Hammond had told you. You noted where they went wrong, taking the nature of the Nox at face value, instead of looking under the surface.
They needed someone like me for this, you muse. Time and time again in your international relations classes, your professors pushed the fact that appearances can be deceiving and you can’t judge the value of another culture with your own values. Plus, with your telepathy, as minor as it was, you could get an additional read on the situation.
You look up, a slight smile on your face. Hammond raises an eyebrow. “Done already?”
“Yes, sir,” you answer, closing the file. He makes a sweep motion with his hands and you take that as a signal to go ahead. You can feel yourself get excited as you start. “Well, first, you must take this with a grain of salt, as I wasn’t there. But, with all respect, your people missed a big thing. The Nox brought them back to life and were able to learn a whole other language in a manner of minutes. Combined with their long lives, and what I believe the, uh, what was his name, uh Colonel described as cloaking technology, the Nox are an incredibly advanced race. I think your people were blinded by the Nox’s appearances and the fact they’re pacifists.”
Hammond nods slowly. “And you would have trusted the Nox?”
“Yes, sir, and I would have heeded their direction to leave. We must remember we’re the guests in this scenario and we were on the Nox’s planet. Additionally, the Nox must have faced many trespassers over the years who tried to hunt the, uh, bug, so…” you trail off slightly, pulling together your thoughts. “I, uh, would have trusted them, sir. That is my professional opinion.”
“Would you be surprised if I told you the Nox cut off any communication between them and this planet?” Hammond asks.
You feel your stomach drop. “No, sir. I gathered that from the reports. If the Nox are as pacifist as they seem, they would feel their way of life would be threatened by our weapons.”
“Yes, we were all disappointed when SG-1 informed us of that.” Hammond nods again. “Doctor, I would like to offer you a position on SG-1.”
“Oh,” you breathe. Blinking rapidly, you clear your throat. “So, this, is all real? There are aliens out there and we can go to other planets?”
He smiles. “Yes, and so much more. Your background in politics and diplomacy, and,” he hesitates slightly, “and your mutant capabilities would make you a valuable member here.”
You snort. “But really for my powers, right?” you add ruefully, your shock and awe wearing off slightly.
Hammond shakes his head indignantly. “No, Doctor. You’re chosen because of your intelligence and the glowing recommendations we received. You have experience with the unusual and show an aptitude to react and adapt quickly. Your powers were only a smart part of the decision, an added bonus to an already strong resume.”
There’s a warm, fuzzy feeling spreading through you from the praise, and you note the passion behind his words. “Who is it?” you ask softly.
He frowns. “Pardon?”
“Who do you love that’s a mutant?”
He pauses, staring intently at you, and then nods his head slightly. “My granddaughters. Twins. Both of them were born with curly pink hair and know they’re rascally ten-year-olds who find it funny to shapeshift into their parents to get ice cream.” He smiles and the love he is projecting is too much to ignore, even with your mental shields in place. “But, Dr. Petersen I reassure you, the SGC is full of accepting people, and if you ever run into any problems, you come to me. Understood?”
You smile, genuinely. “Yes, sir, absolutely.”
“Well, you will be briefed shortly by the team you’ll be joining. They’re going to prepare you for what to expect offworld, and everything that comes with it.”
You suddenly feel light-headed at the reminder of aliens and planets and offworld. “That-that is amazing, sir, but, offworld, how-”
“Why don’t you see for yourself, Doctor?” Hammond cuts you off, but his voice is kind. He stands up from his chair and you follow suit, albeit on shaky legs. He opens the door next to the plastic insert, leading into the other room you can see. He motions for you to go first, his hand on your shoulder, steadying you.
At first, you think you don’t need the hand, but then you see it. “Oh my God,” you whisper and feel like you might faint. Hammond has a firm grasp on your shoulder as you look at it. A stone circle with symbols carved into it. It’s the most incredible thing you’ve ever seen. “What- what is it?” you get out, your throat dry.
“The Stargate,” he answers. “It was discovered in Giza in the early twentieth century. This is how we can go to other planets, Doctor.”
Mindblown, you gaze upon it, the Stargate, in silence. This was not what you imagined your first job was going to be. “It’s incredible, sir,” you say finally. “Absolutely amazing. Like nothing I have ever experienced before.”
“I’m glad you think so,” he replies. He leads you over to a table and you gladly take a seat. Hands shaking slightly, you look up as you hear footsteps on the metal stairs at the back of the room. The General smiles. “Ah, right on time. Doctor Peterson, this is SG-1, the team I was telling you about.”
Ah, the team who fucked up the Nox situation. You hold back that snarky comment (you mean, you can’t blame them exactly, you’re used to the weird and whacky, but come on ) and smile brightly. There’s four of them, three men, and one woman. One of the men has a gold symbol stamped on his forehead and you look at it curiously. The man notices you staring and he inclines his head, to your embarrassment.
“General,” the oldest man says. He looks at you, almost disapprovingly. He looks grizzled and he reminds you of a few instructors you once had. Folding his arms, he takes a seat across from you. The woman, a blonde, who looks to be a few years older than you, sits next to him, a welcoming smile on her face. The man with the stamp sits next to you, and a man who looks to be the same age as the other woman next to him. The younger man seems familiar to you somehow, but you can’t put your finger on it. “This the suit?”
“Colonel, may I introduce Dr. Peterson. Dr. Peterson, this is Colonel Jack O'Neill, head of SG-1.” You turn your smile to him and the Colonel gives you a snarky look in exchange. “Next to him is Captain Samantha Carter, who happens to be the expert on the Stargate. Next to you is Teal’c-” the name sounds foreign and you note it as he inclines his head again. “- and Dr. Daniel Jackson, figured out how to use the Stargate.”
“It’s nice to meet you all,” you say brightly, and wince internally at how high your voice is. The last of the names click suddenly and you sit up straighter. “Oh, Dr. Jackson! I’ve read your work. I actually referenced your work in a paper I published a few weeks ago.”
Dr. Jackson has a kind face that you immediately trust, round glasses, and brown hair that brushes his face. “Yes, I read it actually. It was great work, really, even when you did basically call me a kook,” he adds, smiling slightly. Captain Carter lets out a laugh.
You blush. “Oh, uh, sorry about that, I didn’t-”
O’Neill cuts you off, looking at you dubiously. “General, with all due respect, this is supposed to be our diplomat? No offense to you, Doctor, but, what are you, twenty?”
You bristle and Hammond sends the Colonel a look. “Colonel,” he says sharply. “That was out of line.
“Sorry, sir,” he grumbles. He turns back to you and studies you. “How old are you anyway?”
It’s a sensitive topic for you. You’re used to the ridicule you get because of how young you are. “Twenty-eight,” you say stiffly.
“Twenty-eight,” O’Neill repeats. “ Twenty-eight! ” his voice raises.
“Jack,” Dr. Jackson says sharply.
“Daniel!”
“She’s only a year younger than I was when we went through the gate to Abydos,” he points out. He sends you a small, apologetic smile, Captain Carter and Teal’c exchanging amused glances.
O’Neill sighs deeply, rubbing at his eyes. “Yeah, and look at where that got us.” He sighs again, and you smile at the weariness in his voice. “She’s really the one, General?”
“Yes, Colonel,” Hammond replies patiently. “Dr. Peterson will be an excellent addition to your team. You are in need of a diplomat, especially in light of the situation on Hadante two weeks ago.”
Captain Carter leans forward. “Sir, there was no way we could have foreseen what have happened, we were just trying to help out that man.”
“I understand that, Captain. But,” Hammond straightens. “The SGC, as suggested by the President, has been looking to have a diplomat on staff, and on SG-1, for a while now. Dr. Jackson, you are doing a fine job, and your expertise will always be needed, but as we encounter more alien governments and species, the President believes it is wise to have a professional diplomat on staff.”
Dr. Jackson nods slowly and you’re relieved to see that there isn’t any animosity on his face. “It would free up some space on my desk and in the Arch-Anthro department,” he says slowly. He looks over to O’Neill, who has a blank expression on his face. “Jack,” he says again, his voice pacifingly.
“Daniel,” he replies, but there’s a note of acceptance in his voice. Sighing, he reaches across the table with his hand out. “I look forward to having you on the team, Dr. Petersen.”
You smile and shake it. “Likewise, Colonel.”
“Call me Jack,” he says, waving you off.
“I look forward to getting to know another of the Tau’ri’s great academics,” Teal’c says gravely, inclinging his head.
You blush, thanking him as Dr. Jackson and Captain Carter offer you well-wishes.
“Tell me, General, at least she’s got some combat experience,” O’Nei- Jack , says. “Don’t need another Daniel who doesn’t know how to shoot.” The man in question rolls his eyes.
“I can assure you, I can take care of myself, Jack,” you reply. You look over to Hammond. “Did you not tell them, sir?”
“Tell us what?” Jack asks indigiantly.
“No, I was leaving that to you, Doctor,” Hammond says, ignoring the Colonel.
A slow smile spreads across your face. You quite enjoy surprising people when they don’t know about your powers. Setting your eyes on the coffeepot at the end of table, you flick your fingers and it flies across the table into your hands. You calmly pour yourself a mug as Jack swears and Captain Carter jumps in her chair.
“You’re a hok’tar,” Teal’c says from besides you. You glance over to see Teal’c looking at you in awe. “Colonel O’Neill, you never told me of this.”
“About what, buddy?” Jack says. “I mean she gave me a bit of a fright, but she’s just a mutant.”
“‘Just a mutant?’” you scoff. “Look, Colonel, I’ve a got a four out of five rating on the-’
“Advanced human,” Dr. Jackson cuts you off, not even looking apologetic. “Advanced human, that’s what you said, Teal’c.”
“Indeed.” Teal’c inclines his head. “Not much is known about the hok’tar, mostly a rumor among the Goa’uld. But they were Tau’ri who were supposed to have unbelievable powers, such as yourself, Dr. Peterson.”
“So, other planets had mutants?” you question curiously. There was debate in the academic community over what exactly caused mutation, whether that be some sort of evolutionary path humans are now on, or environmental factors. Now, you were leaning towards the later.
Teal’c frowns. “I am unsure. It has been a long time since anyone has seen a hok’tar. They are coveted by the System Lords, as they make powerful hosts.”
“Hosts?” you send a glance towards the General. “Uh, General, with all due respect, you didn’t mention anything about some revenge of the body snatchers type stuff.”
The General losts out a long, suffering sigh. “That is what this meeting is about, but it seems to have been derailed.” He seems to be used to this kind of interruption during meetings, his facial expression that of an exasperated, old man. “Dr. Jackson?”
“Uh, yes.” He stands up, letting out a sigh, heading over to the projector screen on the wall. The lights dim and the projector lights up. “So, where to start?”
You head is spinning by the time Dr. Jackson sits down and the lights turn on. Your hands shake slightly as you rub the back of your neck, as if you’re already preparing to feel a Goa’uld burrowing into your neck. Images start running through your head of the destruction a Goa’uld could havoc if they possessed you, or any other mutant.
“Doctor?” the General prompts. You look up from the table to see everyone in the room sending you assessing looks. Jack looks like he’s trying to get a read on you, to find any kind of weakness. You don’t blame him. Captain Carter looks sympathetic and Teal’c looks as stoic as always. Dr. Jackson looks weary and you feel a pang go through you, remembering the way his voice shook slightly as he spoke of his wife.
“Yeah,” you get out, drawing out the end of the word. “That’s uh, a lot, General.”
“I know,” he says, folding his hands and resting them on the table. “Do you still want to join SG-1?”
“Of course.” There’s no moment of hesitation. As scary as all this was, you felt a deep-seated drive to help, in any way you can. It calls to you, unlike any future career you saw yourself in. “With this Goa’uld threat, you need allies, more than ever.”
“I’m glad to hear that.” He stands up, the two military officers scrambling. “You start in two weeks. And,” he pauses, “Let’s keep Dr. Peterson’s telepathy in this room. It would be our ace in the whole in case of any foothold situations.”
“Smart, sir,” Jack says. “Doc is our own little lie detector.”
You smile. “For the right price, of course.”
The General chuckles. “Of course. I look forward to working with you, Doctor.”
When he walks out of the room, everyone relaxes slightly. There’s a big smile on Captain Carter’s face, and she walks over to give you a hug. It surprises you slightly, but you return it. “It’s great to have another woman on the team,” she gushes.
Jack rolls his eyes. “We’re right here, Carter.”
“I know, sir,” she says, the amusement clear in her voice. “If you need any help moving, just let us know.”
“Uh, thank you,” you get out. The realization that you have to pack up your whole life, move from the city you grew up in, the city you love, hits you suddenly and a wave of homesickness goes through you. You’ve always lived on the East Coast, flitting between New York City and Boston, and now you going to suddenly be in a land-locked state going to different worlds.
“I am pleased you are going to be joining the team, Doctor Peterson,” Teal’c intones, and you’re thankful for the interruption. “I am honored to do battle besides a hok’tar.”
You blush slightly. “Thank you, Teal’c. And I hope to learn from you. Maybe teach me a few things?”
A pleased smile spreads across his face and he inclines his head. Jack suddenly claps his hands. “Well, kids, we got work to do, and Doc here probably has a plane to catch and a house to pack up.” He pats you on the back. “See you in a few days. And don’t think just because you’re a mutant excuses you from some basic training.”
“Of course not, Jack,” you say pleasantly, even though you’re internally groaning.
“Good man. Uh, woman.” He sends you a smile and walks out the door, the Captain and Teal’c trailing behind him.
“It was good meeting you, Doctor,” Dr. Jackson says, waving on his way out.
“You too, Doctor,” you reply, snorting slightly at the double use of honorifics. You’re looking forward to getting on first name basis and dropping the titles.
The same sergeant from before, who insists you call him Walter, comes in and leads you to a quiet office to fill out paperwork. He takes one look at you, your slightly dazed expression and shaky hands, and brings you a sandwich and a hot chocolate from the mess. “I was nauseous when I heard about all this,” he confesses to you, smiling at you kindly.
You sign NDA after NDA, your hand cramping at some point. You read all the documents from front to back (hey, your law degree wasn’t just for decoration) and you apologize. But, Walter just sits with you patiently, even after you insist he gets back to his job.
You finish with the last document, sighing and rubbing at your hand. “All done,” you announce happily. “And I’ll get a copy of all this?”
“Of course,” he says. “As soon as you get settled in, I’ll make sure you receive a copy along with your security badges.”
“Thank you, Walter,” you say sincerely.
“It’s my pleasure. The SGC is lucky to have you.” Walter walks you out, leading you through the maze that is the SGC, back to the elevator. “Don’t forget your blazer,” he reminds you.
It’s still damp and you grimace. “Hell of a rainstorm,” you grumble and he chuckles.
“Sure was, Doctor. Have a safe plane ride home.” You smile, and press the up button, the elevator dinging as the door opens.
“Dr. Peterson!” You turn around to see Dr. Jackson jogging slightly to catch up with you. “Let me walk you out,” he says.
“Alright.” You both step into the elevator as the doors open, the other doctor nodding to the Airman stationed near the door. “Dr. Jackson, I’m assuming this is a plot to assassinate me for sullying your good name?” you joke.
He guffaws, smiling at you and leaning against the side of the elevator. “Not at all. And please, call me Daniel.”
“Then you gotta call me Pete.” He sends you a look and you blush slightly. “Nickname that started in my masters program and it kinda stuck.”
“Pete.” Daniel nods slightly. “Alright, Pete, I gotta say, I was quite impressed with your article. Really impressed.”
You’re flustered. You weren’t expecting that. Praise like that was hard to come by from academics your own age, especially from one’s for whom you wrote an article critiquing their paper. “I- uh, thank you Doctor- I mean, Daniel.”
He smiles. He’s got quite a nice smile. “It was the right mix of sci-fi and academia. I wish I had went down that path, instead of, you know.” He gestures with his hands and his smile turns into a rueful one.
“Going full conspiracy nut?” you say dryly.
“You could say that,” he snorts. “I am a pariah in the academic community. But, you know, I wouldn’t change a thing.” His eyes are wide and earnest behind his glasses. He’s pretty, in a boyish way, and you have to remember he has a wife.
“It’s just… extraordinary,” you say, still in a state of astonishment and awe.
“I know. Just wait until you go through the gate.”
You brighten at the mention of the Stargate, of going offworld and exploring and being an intergalactic ambassador. “It’s like my dreams coming through,” you admit, as the elevator stops. “Even the horror of encountering body snatching, god aliens isn’t enough to turn me away.”
“Ah, so you’re a bit of an adventurer?” he teases, leading you out of the elevator. You shiver slightly as you step into the lobby, the cool air of the outside world wafting in.
“A bit,” you admit. “Kinda drilled into me from a young age, you know?”
“Yes, you being a hok’tar and all,” he says mysteriously. You stop at the door and look forlornly outside, the rain still beating down.
“I think I prefer mutant.” You step outside and twitch your fingers slightly, the rain bending away from you. You look behind you to see Daniel smiling at you, a slight bit of awe on his face. “Coming, Daniel?”
“You betcha.” He steps out and walks by your side without hesitation, looking up at the slightly warped sky from below your shield. “Never seen any kinda of aliens out there do anything like this.”
“Good. I shudder to think of what a Goa’uld could do if they got their hands on a mutant.”
Daniel’s expression darkens slightly. “Yeah,” he sighs. “Not good.”
“Not good,” you echo. “But, they’ll never get their hands on me,” you joke. “I’m far too willy. I’ll knock them on their asses before they even lay a slimey little finger on me.”
He chuckles, rubbing at his face. “I hope so, Pete, I really hope so.” You both stop as your reach your car and you turn towards him. There’s a pause. “Am I about to get soaked on my way back?”
You laugh. “No, Daniel, you’re not going to get soaked,” you mock slightly. “Trust me.”
“I do,” he says simply, and there’s a note of sincerity to his voice. You both know there’s more to his statement that than just trusting to not get wet. You feel warm at the thought that he already trusts you. “Get some rest, Pete. You’re not gonna get any until you join the SGC.”
“I don’t think I’ll be able to get any rest,” you say honestly. “My mind is gonna be too busy.”
“I know.” He squeezes your shoulder. “Have a safe flight.”
“Thanks, Daniel.”
He turns away and you keep the rain off of him as you get into the car. It’s not hard, you just need to keep a bit of concentrated of keeping your new teammate safe. You let it slide away when he walks through the door and you start your car.
Shit. A smile grows across your face. You’re gonna be a super hero, just not in the way you ever imagined.