Chapter 9 – Off Base, Part 1

April 28, 2002

"You nervous, John?" Sands asked from her spot in the front seat. 'Shotgun' it was called. But it was apparently inappropriate to keep a shotgun under that seat while in the nation's capitol city. Bell, however, claimed that it was very appropriate when in Detroit, the city his parents emigrated to from South Korea just a few years before he was born. Sands and Bell had to show Raythe a world map in order for him to understand any of their explanation.

"No, I am not intimidated by a bunch of bureaucrats trying to make themselves feel important." Just a few days prior, the SGC has almost been destroyed when replicators had infiltrated the base. Their source was a robotic girl named Reese, who SG-1 had brought onto base. General Hammond had offered her refuge, and everyone had nearly died as a result. The Department of Defense had decided that they needed a better handle on any non-terrestrial personnel at the SGC and needed in-person interviews.

Griff snorted at Raythe's assessment of their oversight committee. He was in the driver's seat, scanning the wide, multi-laned highway before he merged into the lane on his right.

"Stop pulling on your tie," Bell said from his seat next to Raythe. He leaned over the center seat to fix the tie. Raythe was dressed in a black suit that Sands had to buy for him. It fit reasonably well, but the black fabric made his normally pale gray hair seem all the more white and alien. As if his skin didn't do that already.

"It's a noose. It's an actual noose that you wear around your neck." He tugged the tie knot back down. "I feel ridiculous in this outfit."

"Well, you look ridiculous," Bell said.

"Jeff, you're not helping," Sands said. "John, you look very nice."

Now Raythe snorted.

"Children," Griff called back to them, "settle down. We're almost there."

Raythe scowled further. "He knows I'm older than him, right?" he asked to no one in particular.

"Are you?" Sands asked.

"Yes. A lot older."

"How old are you?"

There was a pause, and Raythe fidgeted with his seatbelt. "I'm not sure about the conversion to Earth years, but the difference in our age makes the lot of you seem infantile and puny."

"Jesus, what's got your panties in a twist?" Griff grumbled.

Sands answered rather than let the conversation devolve further. "He's frustrated because it's his first time off base, but he's not allowed to see anything."

"I'm being moved from an underground, windowless compound to another windowless compound."

"At least you get to see some stuff now," Sands offered weakly. Griff wasn't honestly any more impressed with that than Raythe was.

"From the back seat through tinted windows. I came to the SGC for refuge, but I'm basically a prisoner there."

"John, I know it's frustrating, but most of the people on this planet don't know aliens actually exist. Your presence in public could really upset a lot of people. You know the stargate has to be kept secret."

"No I don't. You're the only culture I know that keeps it secret, and your government's inability to be honest with the people it governs is hardly my problem."

"OK, that's enough," Griff decided to put a stop to this whole rant. "Taking issue with being confined to the mountain is one thing, but your protests against the secrecy of the stargate program are not something you want to bring up during this interview. That will not work out well for you. Got it?" Raythe remained sullenly quiet in the back seat. "Raythe?"

"Yes sir."

"Good. Now let's get this over with."

In truth, Raythe was indeed frustrated with Earth politics and his confinement to the mountain. But it wasn't all that was bothering him. He needed to feed again. Those three Jaffa had sustained him for longer than expected, but the drunk from Lanella had been three months ago.

That hunt left Raythe with mixed feelings. While the hunt itself had been wonderfully liberating and the night afterwards just as enjoyable, the following morning ended up being far less exhilarating. While Raythe had been sleeping in with Myla, Sands and a handful of others had found the man's trail and, eventually, the trampled hill where Raythe had rolled his dried body down to the river. The sunken body had not been found, and Sands, thankfully, concluded that he likely fell into the river while intoxicated. This meant that no blame or even suspicion was directed towards Raythe, but the whole experience left him feeling distinctly uncomfortable. He had never had to witness any aftermath of his feedings. Raythe blamed the knot in his gut on anxiety over possibly being caught and, now, the encroaching hunger.

Up in the front seat, Griff was happy for the quiet. Maneuvering through the busy streets wasn't exactly fun and required more concentration than the chatty team normally allowed him. He signaled and drove the sedan down an off-ramp. This street was much less busy. Griff wasn't surprised. The highway had been busy with commuters going home, but most everyone around here was already gone. Raythe was deliberately being brought on a day when traffic around the Pentagon would be minimal to decrease the chances of him being spotted.

Griff stopped at a red light at a T-intersection. There were no other cars at the stop, but he glimpsed a set of headlights in the rearview mirror.

Sands, ever the peacekeeper, broke the silence. "Do you want to go over practice questions again?"

"No, I think I'm alright. 'Don't lose my temper, don't be defensive.' I got it."

The light turned green, and Griff pulled forward. "I'm sure you'll be fi–"

The whole car jarred to the right as a heavy SUV slammed into the front of the car. For a split second, Griff saw the hood of the car cave in before the airbag exploded into his face, knocking him out.