Disclaimer: Stargate: SG-1 is not mine. Mortal Kombat is not mine. Buffy: the Vampire Slayer is not mine. This is a crossover between Stargate, Buffy, and my MK fan-fiction, though it is taking a detour from the original plot-line.
Side note: I'm a newcomer in the Stargate world, and I'm also not all that strong on the Buffy-verse, so if I have inaccuracies, I apologize but don't send e-mails flaming with viruses and programs to crash my computer and warp my files (I have enough of those warping stuff anyway). Because then I won't be able to fix those inaccuracies. Oh, how logic fits together like a perfectly done puzzle...
When: For the Stargate universe, this would be during S7, but before the episode 'Heroes'. I don't like that particular episode, and prefer my Janets alive, thank you. MK doesn't really have 'seasons' so I'm safe there. Buffy is after S7 (sniff, I miss waiting anxiously for Tuesday nights to watch it).
Notice: This story has now finished revising--for now, at least.Chapter 4 has the major changes, and Chapter 2 has a minor detail added that will make things make more sense later. Sorry for the long wait; as a reward for your patience I've actually posted the fifth chapter. Thank goodness for WordPad, though I would prefer if I had Word back...
July 21st, Time Unknown
Papers shuffled in the room as its restless occupants murmured and awaited the summit to begin. The impressive assemblage consisted of three branches of the highest powers: the Elder Gods, the Ascended, and the Powers That Be.
At the current moment, a brave mortal would have thought them more akin to tantrum-throwing three-year-olds.
An immortal demon sighed as he sank lower into his chair, ignoring the bickering raging on around him. He plucked his fedora off his head and stared blearily at it for a second before replacing it with a sigh. This is why I don't come to more meetings than necessary. All they do is 'wah wah' this and 'wah wah' that. And Mother always asks, "Why don't you take the world more seriously, Whistler-Dearest?" I would think the answer is as clear as an invisible demon.
It's because I don't want to turn into these dimwits.
The demon took another look around before grimacing. The elders of the pantheon were not even in attendance. All that sat in their chairs aged about a few thousand centuries older and a few hundred younger than he.
They knew it would turn out to be a big joke, Whistler thought sourly. They knew they would argue themselves blue in the face, admit defeat, and let their big brothers handle the whole mess. Of course, Big Brother and Big Sister would just make it a bigger mess, but at least they make a decision. Why, oh, why did I leave my Scotch bottle back in the flat?
"Brethren, calm down!" an Ascended being screamed over the clamor. Returning his attention to the pantheon, Whistler skimmed his eyes over the broken chairs, bruised Elders, dull PTB auras, and three Ascended beings that looked downright agonized. His gaze landed on a pretty-faced Ascended, and remembered her name as Oma Desala.
Now that she had the attention she desired, Oma lowered her tone to a more respectable level. "This is a delicate situation. It requires delicate handling. We should sit down, and plan our attack as adults, not children."
"And by 'delicate handling,' Oma," one PTB spoke, "are you insinuating that our champion oversee the problem? For we all know how your. . . group, manages tact."
Whistler had to give the PTB a point, though he didn't know which PTB had spoken: Oma's champions did have a tendency to do more "blow 'em up and head on out"-ing than delicate operations.
Oma seemed to concede that point as well. "They are not known for their finesse, but they, as the mortals say, get the job done. And with less emotional drama as your champion does, Truma."
Ah, Truma, Whistler recognized the PTB's aura now; Truma was the one that thought of the Slayer as an entertaining pawn. And ergo was one Whistler did not like.
"This situation is geared closer to the Slayer's duties than your humans, Oma!" Truma flared his aura; it reminded Whistler of his last Fourth of July: showy and pointless. "The Slayer has far more experience in matters like these than your. . . SG-1."
Oma's face twisted in a frown, and just when Whistler thought a showdown was going to happen (and thus earning him a hefty hundred pounds of gold) another voice intervened. "Oma, Truma, settle down. Let's set an example for the others, hm?"
Whistler turned his attention to the speaker, as did every other being in the assembly. He was one of the Gods, though not himself an Elder. Eyes sparked with electricity as he added, "We wouldn't want our older siblings to think that we need constant guidance, so let's keep the hall intact."
For a moment, Whistler thought the God had laid eyes on him; the moment went as quickly as it came. "I have a proposition that may settle all our disputes and the problem at hand."
"And what would that be?" Truma snarled. "Letting your Defenders fight, Thunder God?"
Whistler snapped his eyes back on the God. Lord Rayden, Whistler finally recognized him. He had heard stories while drinking himself into a stupor at several bars: Rayden was infamous for mingling with the mortals he swore to protect and aiding them in a more-than-helpful way.
I'm glad one of us 'protectors' can do that, Whistler grumbled to himself as Rayden addressed Truma.
"Of course I want my fighters to participate," Rayden replied cheerfully. "Not exactly certain if they themselves would want to land themselves into another brawl, but I'll turn 'em around. But what I'm suggesting is that we have a joint effort in this problem."
Whistler leaned forward. This sounded interesting. "What kind of joint effort?" he asked, speaking in the assembly for the first time in quite a while. Several looked surprised at him, probably unaware that his presence was legit.
Rayden grinned at Whistler, an action that made him more worried than reassured. "We bring the Powers That Be's Chosen One, the Ascended's forces, and my Defenders together and they fight as one army."
This caused an instantaneous uproar. Oma was busy trying to calm her fellows while they yelled for "No interference!" and Truma exclaimed that, "The Slayer works alone!" and the Elders insisted that, "We cannot break the rules, even for this one obstacle!"
Rayden stood tranquilly, waiting out the storm. Whistler commended him for his patience, and after a time the group realized Rayden would not join them in their riot. They settled into a silent simmer.
When the last mutterer made his peace, Rayden went on. "This is an obstacle that threatens all of humanity, all of the universe, and eventually all of us as well. We must tread on each other's borders in order to resolve this case," he nodded his head to the Ascended.
He turned to Truma, and Whistler saw a flash of annoyance in Rayden's eyes before he spoke, "In my opinion, the Powers That Be should never have made the Slayer work alone. I kept my silence, however, as it is not my place to say. But the current Slayer, or Slayers as the case is, are no longer alone, am I right, Whistler?" he asked of the demon, tilting his head to the side.
Rising to his feet, Whistler nodded. "The Slayer's got herself quite a following," he reported. "And they've all helped, not hindered. It's about time the Slayer quit the solo biz, and I for one am thrilled that she's brought a few people into the limelight with her." He glared challengingly at Truma, placating his rebellious side with that motion.
Still fuming, Truma sat in his seat. He did not argue further.
"As for the rules," Rayden addressed his own colleagues with a cool eye, "they do not apply here. The rules are for Mortal Kombat, the Slayer's core duties, and the threat of Goa'uld supremacy only. And yes, I do feel that the rules should stay, if only to give the other side a fighting chance." He chuckled for a second before sobering and continuing. "This problem doesn't fall under the jurisdiction of any of the three, so we are well within our rights to combine forces."
Rayden took a relaxed pose, and the assemblage realized that he was finished speaking his case. Instead of the riot breaking out, as Whistler expected, they turned to their neighbors and murmured. Catching a few of the whispers, Whistler smiled. Rayden might be a slight odd-ball, but he sure knows how to get 'em on their side.
Finally, the whispers stopped and Oma rose. "The Ascended put their faith in Rayden's choice," she declared.
The spokesperson for the Elders announced their agreement, though Whistler privately thought they should have gotten Rayden to speak; he was far more impressive.
The PTB took longer to make their decision, but in the end Truma rose in defeat and grumbled, "We yield to Rayden's plan," before slumping back.
Having come to a decision, the pantheon dissipated into clumps. Whistler made his way to the door, firmly set in his plan to visit the closest bar. His plan was put on hold, however, as he bumped into the Thunder God.
"Sorry 'bout that," Whistler grunted as he picked himself up and retrieved his fedora from the floor. Rayden took a moment to settle his own coolie hat back upon his head before giving his own apologies. "That was some speech back there," Whistler hailed. "Handling the Powers That Be, the Ascended, and the Elders at once, that takes some quick thinking."
"No, just a lot of bullshitting," Rayden confessed with a sigh. "After a few thousand years, you get to learn how sugary it takes to sweeten up an idea to the Elders. After a few coats, they forget what they were against of and say yes so they can go back to blissfully doing squat."
"Sounds like the Powers That Be," Whistler muttered. Jerking his head to the door, he asked, "Want a beer? My treat."
Rayden wrinkled his nose. "How about a long draught of Scotch and we forget the beer?"
"You're my new favorite God, Ray," Whistler led the way out of the assembly and walked through the blaring white hall. His keen hearing did not miss the murmured, "Did you even have a favorite God before?"
They found their way to a bar and ordered their drinks, waiting for them in silence. When the barkeep returned with the glasses, conversation started up as though it had been merely set on pause. "Slayer's gonna have a field day when I give her the news," Whistler groaned. "After she kicks my balls, maybe she'll let me explain to her it wasn't my fault." The demon thought about it for a second, then shook his head. "Nah, she'll rip my ribcage out and give it to me as a hat first, just like she promised. Long story," he added at Rayden's inquisitive look.
"I'll take your word on it," Rayden assured him.
"What about you?" Whistler prompted. "What was that comment back there about?"
Rayden rolled his eyes. "They've just gotten back to their normal lives a month ago, and here I am crossing their thresholds to tell them they've got another fight ahead of them. Somehow I'm thinking they won't be inviting me to stay for a cuppa. Well, maybe Liu and Kitana will," he added as an afterthought. "They've always been the considerate ones. Nightwolf and Sub-Zero, too, they'll be friendly about it. It's the other three I don't want to face."
"How about you tell the Slayer and I tell your Defenders?" Whistler chuckled. "I'm sure with your godly blood you'd heal faster than me."
"I'm a god, not invincible," Rayden muttered darkly. The way he retreated into his glass for refuge made Whistler believe the topic was not one to broach.
"Men and drinking," Oma's voice made them look up. She hovered over them, frowning at them in disappointment. "What is it with men's obsession for alcohol when they have a task ahead of them?"
"Why don't you pull up a chair and have a drink with us?" Whistler invited cheerily. "The world may very well come to an end tomorrow, and it's best to experience all of life's pleasures before it's covered in shrimp."
Oma and Rayden looked at him oddly.
"What, you think that world full of shrimp is there because the crawfish overpopulated it?" Whistler demanded.
The Ascended being and Thunder God traded looks. Let's not ask was the message in their eyes. However, Oma did sit down and order a glass of white wine with them.
"Where shall we gather them?" Oma asked as the three new glasses were served up. "I suspect it would be easier to tell them all at once than in separate groups."
"How about Cleveland?" Whistler recommended. "You two have ways of transporting groups to one location, I don't. All I got is my handy dandy Volkswagen."
Rayden rolled his eyes, "Volkswagen. Mortals could sink no lower than building that contraption."
"What's wrong with it?" Whistler asked, outraged.
"It ran over my hat," the god grumbled. "Twice."
"As enlightening as this conversation sounds," Oma interrupted, "we should get back to the matter at hand. We agree to meet in Cleveland?"
The men's heads nodded, Rayden far more soberly. It appeared he was still grieving over his lost hat (even though he was wearing it at the moment).
"Alright, Cleveland tomorrow sound good?" Whistler clarified.
"Tomorrow's fine," Rayden waved a hand. "Oh, well, at least Sonya can't chew me out for waiting until the last minute to forewarn them of terrible news."
"If we are decided, I shall go now," Oma rose. "The military is awfully slow at responding to distress calls."
She vanished. Rayden toyed with his glass a moment before sighing and rising as well. "I should start now, too. Rounding up seven fighters is not as easy as one might think. Especially when they're whiny."
Whistler raised his glass in farewell. Rayden paused. "Aren't you going to tell the Slayer?"
"Nah, I like living, thanks. Buffy can stand to welcome eleven guests on short notice."
Rayden waited a moment longer, obviously debating whether or not to try and convince the demon otherwise. With a sigh, he spouted his own farewell and disappeared with a bolt of lightning. Whistler rolled his eyes and returned to his drink, muttering, "Show-off gods and their disappearances. Ah well, at least he's got style."
Love it? Hate it? Don't want anymore? Want to read the rest? Need contact information so you can burn me at the stake? There's only one way I can know, though I doubt I'll give you my address.