AN: So, yes, I have been AWOL. Unfortunately, that looks like it's not going to change anytime soon. However, as I've said before, there are many things I want to write, when I get the chance, and for that reason, I really don't want to lose my touch – before I wrote Paperclip Charms, I hadn't written anything in about a year and a half, and getting back into it was tough. So, partially because I find writing really therapeutic (more so than reading, which is why I've still been active in writing, and not so much in reading…sorry, I do really enjoy what you guys all write, I'm grateful that you produce and share it, I just haven't had the time or inclination to read anything, because of the demands of my 3rd year chemistry student life - *sends appreciative and apologetic vibes over the internet*), and partially because I want to keep in the swing of things and not let my writing skills get too rusty, I've given this song shuffle challenge thing a go.

I did cheat a little and I listened to each song twice while doing it, and I did some light editing, but otherwise I fear none of these would make any sense…

I plan to try and write something every single week, even if uni gets crazy (or rather, crazier than it is); so I'll either put up an episode tag, or a new chapter in this collection of flash-fics.

I hope you enjoy!


Anything You Can Do, I Can Do Better – Annie Get Your Gun


Bozer and Mac exchanged a glance, then turned back to their two friends, who were currently on the edge of the deck area, both hanging from a bar and glaring at one another determinedly.

(Riley was almost certainly going to lose this particular contest to Jack; she might have less weight to hold up, but Jack was ex-Delta Force, after all.)

However, both Bozer and Mac knew that firstly, Jack's inevitable victory wasn't going to be the end of this competition, and secondly, it didn't mean that Jack was going to win this competition. Not at all.

It had started with a little teasing and banter on the plane ride back from their latest mission…and had descended into an absurd competition that Mac and Bozer had been roped into designing.

Some kind of makeshift pentathlon.

The first round was who has superior upper body strength?

Round Two was a computer-based challenge.

Round Three was a series of brain teasers prepared by Mac.

Round Four was a marksmanship competition using a couple of Bozer's Nerf Guns (they'd been purchased for a movie project about a year and a half ago, and Mac and Bozer never threw anything out – you never knew when it'd be useful, after all).

Round Five was pie-baking. Bozer had picked that; Mac privately thought that on one hand, it'd be an excellent tie-breaker, since Jack and Riley were both terrible cooks, so it'd be an even contest, but on the other hand, the fact that they were both terrible cooks (he really didn't think either of them could bake a pie successfully) might mean that the whole thing just ended in a tie…

Well, it'd be entertaining at least.

Riley smirked, even as the strain started to show on her face.

'You're going down, old man!'

Jack just smirked right back.

'No, you are, kiddo!'


Roar- Katy Perry


She'd been scared before.

She'd been quiet, kept her head down, tried to make herself small.

Hoped, somehow, against all hope, that her dad would not notice her, would leave her alone (wouldn't scream and shout and occasionally throw things near her, far too near her – her mother had never, ever, ever allowed him to do any more, had always protected Riley the only way she could – would always protect her, however she could), if she just made herself as invisible as she could be.

Made herself as small and meek and seemingly not-a-threat as she could manage.

(Maybe she wasn't very good at it. Maybe that's why it hadn't really worked. She couldn't be called meek now, after all. Not in the slightest.)

So she'd stopped.

She didn't know completely why.

Maybe something finally snapped.

Maybe it was because of what she'd seen in her mother, that incredible strength, that confidence.

Maybe it wasn't even what she'd seen, maybe she'd been born that way.

She was her mother's daughter, after all.

One day, Riley had stood up.

Looked up.

Spoken up.

Pushed back.

Walked through school with her head held high, even though the other kids said nasty things about her (her thrift-store clothes, her conspicuously single mother, her brilliant mind that she couldn't quite hide behind sarcasm and sass and those walls of hers).

Refused to cower before her father when he showed up the next time.

Started gaining a reputation online (her hacker persona had always been strong, never been quiet, but now that Riley was too, her online persona had a little more strength, a louder roar, too, and others took notice and, slowly and surely, started to look at her in awe, because of what she could do, because of that toughness, that strength, that shown through in everything she did, even as she expertly hid her true identity).

This little girl was growing into a lioness.


On My Own - Les Mis


Nikki sighed as she returned to her (new) apartment after yet another long day at the CIA.

She glanced up at the wall at the photos (old photos, memories, her past) that she still hadn't been able to bring herself to throw out.

(And probably, if she was honest, never would be able to.)

It'd been three months since Mac had asked to meet up with her, and told her, once and for all, that whatever they were since Thornton's arrest, since the revelation of everything she'd kept from him, they were over.

For good.

(There'd been a couple of dinners – or lunches or brunches or breakfasts– you couldn't be choosy about date times in their line of work, and no-one in their line of work was all that fussy about labels for meals – and a couple of stolen nights in the intervening near-year, but nothing that really involved them being back together, like they'd once been. Nowhere near.)

She sighed again, put down her purse and keys, kicked off her shoes, poured herself a drink and sank down into her couch.

She'd lied to him a lot.

And she'd hurt him badly.

Both physically and emotionally.

And while she knew how important it'd been that she'd done that (how vital her job had been, and still was), this would be her greatest regret.

She was only almost-twenty-nine, still young, but she knew, deep in her soul and her heart, that she'd never regret anything as much as losing Mac.

She loved him.

Had, through everything.

And probably still would forever, no matter what.

It'd been three months.

She swore, sometimes, in the dead of the night, all alone in her apartment, that she felt his arms around her for just a moment (a ghost of a memory, of sensation), or that she felt him get out of bed in the middle of the night, suddenly struck with an idea, even in his sleep, in his dreams, that he just had to write down or even make a start on (she was dreaming, of course).

She still loved him.

Always would.

There was no-one quite like Angus MacGyver, after all.


America - West Side Story


Mac held his hands up in surrender, locking eyes with the young man holding a gun to him.

'I'm sorry that you feel this way. I'm sorry that your life has been tough-'

'You don't know me!' The gun wavered slightly as its holder trembled, ever so slightly. 'You can't possibly understand what I've been through, American!'

Mac nodded slowly. (He had to keep him talking, buy Jack and Riley some time…)

'You're right. I can't understand exactly what you've been through or how you're feeling, but…' He took a deep breath. This kind of thing was always a gamble, but he saw something in this young man (boy, really, he was only nineteen), saw something in his eyes, and he really, really didn't want Jack to have to shoot him; he'd much prefer to talk him down. 'I do understand what it's like to be different. To be an outcast. To be judged for just being you. For something that you can't help, or change.'

The gun shook just that little bit more, lowered for a moment, then came back up.

'You…I…I know what you're doing!'

Mac nodded again.

'I know what it looks like. But I'm not lying, I promise.'

The boy seemed to hear something in his voice, seemed to, at least for a moment, believe him (because he wasn't lying, really, really wasn't), because the gun lowered again, and the boy spoke, his voice soft and sad and angry.

'…This…this is supposed to be a land of opportunity. A land where anyone can be anything and get anywhere, if they work hard and have just a little luck go their way.' Mac nodded again, silent, as the boy's voice rose in volume again. 'It was a lie! It's all lies! Where have my opportunities been?'

The blonde agent nodded yet again, the sheer brokenness in the boy's voice affirming his earlier decision.

'I love my country, but I know it's not perfect. Far from.' He locked eyes with the boy again. 'But I believe that it's a pretty good place, on balance, and I think there's some really wonderful people doing really wonderful things here. I'm sure you've met some.' The boy snorted bitterly and raised the gun again, but his heart didn't seem in it. Mac continued. 'And most of all, I don't think this is worth throwing your life away…'


Ten minutes later, Jack, with an armed SWAT team behind him, ready to shoot, burst into the room, only to find the boy restrained with his partner's shoelaces and the young terrorist's homemade bomb disarmed.

Mac had pulled off a miracle.

As usual.


Later, Jack clapped Mac, who was lost in thought, on the back.

'You did good today, brother. Real good. Kept a kid from going so far into Hell he couldn't find his way back.'

Mac just nodded.

'It was just one kid, though, Jack. How many others like him are out there?'

Jack shrugged, trying for a nonchalance he didn't really feel.

'You're the one with the genius brain, brother.'

Mac snorted, then his face grew more serious, and he pointed at the webpage he had open on his laptop.

The Challenger Club.

'I was thinking of volunteering, at least, if I can find the time.'

Jack glanced at the webpage, and then back at the young man he called his brother.

'That's a real good idea, Mac.'

The blonde gave a little smirk.

'I'm told I'm full of them.'


Price Tag - Jessie J


Mac shook his head as he opened his email account to find yet another one of those emails.

This one was from Tesla.

Yesterday's had been from SpaceX.

The day before had been Google.

He'd received offers from NASA (both Mission Control and JPL), and one from DARPA, which he'd seriously considered, too.

Not to mention the half-a-dozen PhD places he'd been offered.

This one was very personal. Specific.

Evidently, they'd been watching him.

They were offering six figures, like Google and SpaceX and several other tech firms (and a consulting company – why PwC thought he'd be interested in working for them, he had no idea) had. Very high six figures for an eighteen-year-old graduate, too.

Mac just copied-and-pasted the polite (but generic and firm) reply he'd crafted when these emails and letters had started trickling in, and sent his response.

As soon as it'd sent, he closed his emails, and started filling out his enlistment forms.

Money was a necessity.

Barter was not the most efficient system, and it simply wouldn't function in today's globalized world, with such a large population, such a high degree of regional specificity and specialization and diversification of human capital and the commercialisation of just about everything.

He needed to make some money, of course.

He had to eat, and he had to have somewhere to live, and he did have to buy clothing and pay bills, and he did have healthcare expenses and the like.

But he didn't need that much.

He didn't want that much, really.

And there were many, many things more important than money.

Like saving lives.

And he wanted to be able to do that in the most direct way he could.

(He was an engineer, he liked to be able to do things with his own two hands, and he liked to be able to see results relatively quickly, and easily-measureable results too.)

(Things on the quantum and molecular level were interesting, theory and mathematical proofs were fascinating, but it just wasn't the same…)

(Maybe he could save lives with DARPA, but he'd never see the results in the same way as becoming an Army EOD would allow him.)

The pay wasn't the best, especially compared to the other offers he'd been getting, but, as his grandfather always said, nothing worth buying could be bought with cash.

And his grandfather was always right.


AN: Yes, I have very odd taste in music. This isn't even an odd selection, TBH...