Author's Note: Someone left a question in a review in Scions about someone named JJ. Since they didn't leave an email address, I'll answer it here. JJ is Jack (the dog's) son, not Jack O'Neill's. If you're going to ask questions, please leave me a way to get the answer to you!
And there's a language alert on this chapter, too!
OOOOOOOOOO
Something touched his cheek. Something his subconscious didn't recognize as the touch of someone he knew, because the touch alone was enough to pull him from a deep sleep to an uneasy doze.
"Boy?"
The voice was soft, and again something his mind didn't recognize. His restless doze became an uneasy one, and when the whatever it was touched him again, his eyes opened.
He wasn't in the infirmary. That much he knew immediately. Or in his own bed. Or in any other bed he'd ever been in. In fact, he wasn't in a bed at all. He was on a low-slung platform that had absolutely no cushioning – and no blanket – and the wall that he was looking at was metallic gray with an odd inner glow that he knew (even sleepy) wasn't normal.
"Boy?"
Ian turned his head, and was surprised and somewhat annoyed to find an Asgard standing beside him. It was probably the last thing he'd expected, and he realized the damned thing was calling him boy.
"I'm not a boy…"
He looked down at himself, then, and saw he was dressed only in the BDU pants he'd been wearing that morning. Fraiser's crew must have taken off his shirt and shoes and left him alone to sleep. But how had he ended up here? Wherever here was?
"It is good that you are awake."
Ian scowled, and sat up. And almost fell off the platform when a wave of dizziness and exhaustion overtook him. He might be awake, but he wasn't completely awake. He reached out and put his hand on the wall to steady himself, and looked at the Asgard.
"Who are you and what the hell am I doing here?"
"I am known to your kind as Thor," the Asgard told him. "You are on the-"
"Bullshit."
The little alien stopped, looking confused – which was impressive for one of his kind with their limited facial expressions.
"What?"
"You're not Thor," Ian said. "I've met Thor. You're shorter than he is, and you don't have the same mark on your head that he does. So cut the bullshit and tell me who you are."
There was a hesitation, and Ian was pretty sure he was about to be lied to again.
"I am Loki."
"Loki?"
"Yes."
Since he didn't know any Asgard named Loki – he'd only met Thor, after all, and only once – he wasn't sure if this guy was really who he said he was.
"I don't suppose you have any ID?"
The Asgard gave him a confused look – again.
"ID?"
"Never mind. What am I doing here? Where am I? And where is everyone else?"
"You are on my ship," Loki said. "I need your help."
Ian scowled again and looked around.
"A space ship?"
"Yes. But do not be alarmed. I'm not going to hurt-"
"I'm not alarmed," Ian told him, sliding off the platform and staggering a little, but remaining upright."
"Are you injured?" Loki asked him, concerned by the disorientation he was witnessing in the young human.
"No. I'm tired, and hungry, and I need to-" Ian cut himself off. "You didn't answer my questions."
"You interrupted me."
"What do you want?"
"Your help."
"Where's Jack O'Neill?"
"He is not here."
"Well, no shit, Sherlock. That's not what I asked. Where is he? Does he know where I am?"
"He is back on your planet. As far as I know, no one knows where you are – and I'm going to keep it that way."
"You kidnapped me?"
"Kidnapped? No. I do not desire a ransom for you from the others. I merely require some answers from you – and perhaps some assistance – and then I will be happy to send you back to your world."
"You'd better take me back, you little gray bastard," Ian said, furious. "If Jack finds me gone, he's going to blow his top."
"That would be unfortunate," Loki told Ian, seriously. "I will not detain you long, however. All I need is the information that you possess on-"
"I don't give a shit what you need," Ian interrupted. "I'm not going to stay here."
"You don't have a choice. Until I have the information I need, you are my guest."
OOOOOOOOOOO
It was ten-thirty when they first realized something was wrong. It was Janet Fraiser's policy that when someone was in the infirmary – for any reason – they were checked on regularly to make sure everything was okay with them. This included Ian Brooks, who was just sleeping, and the night staff knew it.
The problem was, when one of the medics went to check on him he wasn't in his bed.
He frowned, looking at the empty bed, and wondering at the odd way the blankets were still in place – as if he'd slithered out of them, or had replaced them when he'd gotten out of bed. More odd, though, was the fact that the medic had been on staff in the infirmary all evening, and he was certain he would have seen Ian leave.
Not that the cadet wasn't allowed to leave. There wasn't a standing order to keep him in his bed; only to watch him. He'd been in the infirmary before, and had been allowed to leave his bed to go to the commissary or the bathroom or wherever he wanted to go. But the fact that he hadn't seen him go was troubling.
"What's up?" one of the others asked when he came back to the office.
"Did you see Ian leave?"
"He's gone?"
"Yeah. You didn't see him go?"
"Nope. You'd better go make sure he didn't fall in the toilet or something."
They'd both been in the infirmary the last hour – and neither had seen him return. Which meant that he'd been gone a long time. Too long.
"Yeah."
A quick search of the nearest men's room turned up nothing, as did a look in the commissary and then the rest of the bathrooms on that floor. Still nothing.
"He couldn't have left, could've he?" the same medic asked, exasperated by the fruitless search.
"Call the main gate and see…"
A call to the guard post infirmed them that Ian hadn't left the base. Now the medics were concerned, and they went back and rechecked all the bathrooms one more time, and then checked the commissary again, and then just for the hell of it, they had a security team check the other levels of the SGC just to see if the boy had somehow wandered off and was lost (highly unlikely, but so was them losing a patient).
Nothing.
"We'd better call Doctor Fraiser…"
There was reluctant agreement.
"She's not going to be happy…"
