Somewhere I Belong
Chapter 2
Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers, Stargate-SG1 or Transformers. They belong to, respectively, Marvel/Disney, MGM and Hasbro. I am merely taking them for a short spin.
"What was that all about?" Rogers asked.
"How much time do you have?" Prowl asked.
Rogers shrugged. "As long as it takes?"
"I'll start with the basics," Prowl said. "Optimus Prime is our leader, Elita-1 is his former consort. Elita is unhappy with the caliber of some of the people in charge of deciding our fate here on your planet, current company not included."
"Politicians?" Rogers said.
"How did you guess?" Prowl said, a wry smile on his face.
"I was their dancing monkey once upon a time," Rogers said.
"Since our arrival on Earth, we've been part of the Non-biological Extraterrestrial Species Treaty, or simply known as NEST," Prowl said. "Members of the American and British military and other forces combined with us to form a strike force to deal with incursions of enemy Cybertronians. However, with the destruction of most of our foe, we've been faced with the possible disbanding of NEST. You're here to hopefully prevent that."
"How?" Rogers said.
"We'll figure out something," Prowl said. Ironic, considering his position as second in command chief tactician to the Prime that he didn't have a plan, but he let it slide. "We should go check if ops is back to normal."
They went back inside, and Sunstreaker was indeed removed from the ceiling, and the bots on watch were doing their jobs. At least it looked like it, and Prowl was content with a semblance of protocol. He would take what he could, and mechs knew they would answer to him if they stepped out of line. If not him, then Kup or they would be left to the tender mercies of Elita-1. Most of the mechs had the decency to be terrified of the femme when it came to disciplinary action. He left the special cases to her. She relished dealing with them since Ironhide was gone, and it gave her something to do, and meant Optimus didn't have to deal with the stupidity. Although Prowl sometimes wondered if they shouldn't let their leader deal with it. Optimus had been delegating more and more of his normal duties because of his difficulties with the human authorities.
And speaking of stupid, Hot Rod was trying to catch his optics.
"What?" Prowl snapped.
"Ratchet wants to see you," Hot Rod said. "Don't shoot the messenger."
Prowl's optics narrowed, but he headed toward the med bay, Rogers in tow. He didn't ask many questions. Maybe he didn't think it was polite. Prowl found it refreshing. Not that he didn't enjoy the company of the NEST humans, but sometimes even the best of them tried his patience. So did Ratchet. The tactician steeled himself for whatever Ratchet was going to throw at him, literally and figuratively.
"Capt. Rogers, you might have to duck when we enter," Prowl said. "Ratchet, our chief medical officer, has a temper."
"So does our team doctor," Rogers said.
Prowl stopped, sparing the human a glance. "Yes, Dr. Banner. I read his file," the tactician said. "We should discuss the similarities between our colleagues when afforded the chance."
"Sure," Rogers said.
Prowl entered the code for the med bay, and the doors parted. He entered, Rogers following behind. Ratchet was standing beside a medical berth, scanning a patient—Bluestreak, Prowl's younger brother.
"Hey Prowler," Bluestreak said. "Sunny caught me, and he was angry, and well, I'm fine, really, but Kup thought otherwise, so here I am and is that. . ."
"Blue, report to Kup when Ratchet is finished," he said.
"Do I have to spend time in the brig?"
"Don't sound so enthusiastic about it," Prowl said. "How many times have I told you. . ."
"I know," Bluestreak said. "You didn't answer my question. Is that the human that was frozen in the ice?"
"Bluesteak, are we going to have another discussion about tact?" Prowl said, crossing his arms in annoyance.
"Sorry," Bluestreak muttered.
"Bluestreak, this is Capt. Steve Rogers. Capt. Rogers, may I introduce Bluestreak, my younger brother? The green mech beside him is Ratchet, our CMO," Prowl said.
"Does everybody know about me?" Rogers asked.
"It seems we were more prepared for your presence than you were for this mission," Prowl said. "Our liaison is going to hear about this. I'll arrange for a laptop and a summary of our mission reports as well as our operational manual be sent to your hotel."
"More homework," Rogers said, shaking his head.
"Welcome to my world," Prowl said. "The morning briefing should be over, and Lennox would like to speak with you."
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Twenty minutes later, Rogers was in Lennox's office, waiting for the other man to get off the phone. He finally ended the call, frowning at the phone as he slammed down the handset.
"Jackasses," Lennox muttered, remembering he had a guest. "Sorry. It's been rough around here lately. So, are you thoroughly confused yet? Prowl told me you didn't get anything resembling a briefing before you arrived."
"I was given my orders, and that's it," Rogers said.
"By Fury, right?" Lennox said. "No offense, but your boss is one scary son of a bitch."
"Fury isn't my boss," Rogers said. "He's a necessary evil."
"Either way, it doesn't matter. He's made a few promises I hope he can keep," Lennox said.
"Such as?"
"Keeping this operation together, and under the control of people who understand," Lennox said. "There's been talk of disbanding, or assigning certain assets to other agencies for the time being. I don't like either of them. I'm just a soldier, but I'm the human half of the command element, and we've fought too long for something like this to happen."
"I'm an observer," Rogers said.
"Someone whose opinion could carry some weight, especially with someone like Fury," Lennox said. "Besides, our liaison thought you could offer some much-needed perspective."
"In what way? I'm 70 years behind the times, I barely know anything about what's going on here, and damn it, why did I agree to this?" Rogers said.
"Because you're a glutton for punishment?" Lennox offered. "You're here, and we're going to have to make the best of the situation. I'm turning you over to Mitchell and Jackson this afternoon."
"I hope not as a test subject," Lennox said.
"Mitchell is, was a pilot at his last posting, and Jackson is a civilian consultant to our unit," Lennox said. "They can explain themselves. And the test subject thing. . .funny you should mention that. . .there has been some talk of letting the Autobot eggheads have a crack at figuring out if they can replicate the serum used on you, but Optimus and I shot that down. We're not supposed to have access to Cybertronian weapons technology, and I'm not going to risk the chance that something of our own could be turned against us if it fell into the wrong hands."
Rogers relaxed a little. Someone with ethics. That was a refreshing change from Fury. But Lennox wasn't done yet.
"You and I need to get a few things straight," Lennox said. "You're going to see a few things that might not sit well with your 1940s sensibilities. These guys don't have the hang-ups about same-sex relationships that some humans still do. There are a couple of bonded pairs among the bots, and they're both mech-mech pairings. Mechs are Cybertronian males, femmes, females. You met Ratchet and Wheeljack, correct?"
"Yeah," Rogers said.
"They're one of the bonded pairs, the other is Perceptor and Blurr," Lennox said. "That's a recent development. You also met Elita, right?"
"Red and black femme?" Rogers said.
"That's her," Lennox said, smiling. "There are two more femmes on base—Chromia and Arcee. Don't let Chromia intimidate you if she gets the chance, and Arcee is a little snippy lately because she's carrying, and she might turn her weapons on anybody who ticks her off."
Rogers raised an eyebrow in question.
"Yeah. . .I should explain, right?" Lennox said.
Rogers nodded in affirmation.
"Bonding is the Cybertronian equivalent of a lifetime commitment. It's just what it says it is—a bond between body, mind and soul. Ratchet can explain it. And Arcee is pregnant, or whatever. God, that pissed off the higher-ups in Washington, too. . .why somebody in this universe thought it was a good idea for Springer to spawn, I don't know. . .Hot Rod's going to be an uncle. . ."
"Are you all right?" Rogers asked.
"Nothing a weekend off and a bottle of whiskey wouldn't cure," Lennox said. "Give me an enemy to fight, and I'm good. All this bureaucratic bullshit is enough to drive a man to drink."
"I know how you feel," Rogers said.
"Figured you would," Lennox said. "You're still one of us, aren't you—just a soldier."
"I guess I am," Rogers said. "Except it's hard to know whose orders to follow these days."
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Cam Mitchell was enjoying himself. Well, as much as he could while baby-sitting a formerly frozen in ice super soldier dating from World War II and running interference with Jackson. The pilot recognized the look in the archaeologist's eye—the look he got when he was dying to start asking questions. Mitchell talked, a lot, answering Rogers' questions about where he grew up, his Air Force career, postings, and enjoyed the Kansas jokes Rogers pulled, although Mitchell identified more with Clark Kent and Superman growing up than Dorothy Gale. Although now, as an adult, Mitchell could definitely sympathize with Dorothy. He'd had plenty of not-in-Kansas-anymore moments during his tenure with the Stargate program.
Now he was sitting by and having lunch with Captain-freaking-America, and well, Steve Rogers was a nice guy. He'd fit in well with NEST if he wanted to stay, but Mitchell doubted that would happen. They could use all the help they could get, but why would Rogers want to stay with their outfit when he could fight with gods from other realms, supergenius playboys and spies?
And they were almost through dessert when Jackson just had to ask. Mitchell took in a deep breath, counting backwards from 10. It was on, and all he could do was go along for the ride.
"So, Thor," Jackson said. "Seriously, he's the Thor? The one from myth and legend?"
"He says he is," Rogers said. "He has the hammer and everything. Like Loki isn't enough evidence?"
"Jackson, maybe the Asgard were copying or something? Isn't Asgard the realm Thor is from?"
"Thor's people are the Aesir," Rogers said. "Yes, Asgard is their home."
Jackson had his glasses off, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"Jackson, breathe or your head is going to explode," Mitchell said.
"Mitchell, shut up," Jackson said. "Capt. Rogers, would it be possible to arrange a meeting with this Thor?"
"I could if we could contact him, but I'm not sure how to do that," Rogers said.
"Jackson, in through your nose, out through your mouth," Mitchell said. "Do you need to see Ratchet?"
"No," Jackson snapped, laying his head down on the table.
"Dr. Jackson, are you all right?" Rogers asked.
"I'll be fine," Jackson said.
Mitchell slapped him on the back. "C'mon, Jackson. Time to head back to base."
Jackson sighed, putting his glasses back on, throwing down money to cover his portion of the meal.
"The gods can't really be real," the archaeologist said, climbing into the backseat of Mitchell's Mustang. "I mean real. . .beyond the real we've already experienced."
"Jackson, you'll figure it out," Mitchell said. "Percy will be glad to help. Maybe Carter can access the core on the Odyssey and find out something useful?"
"You're talking about classified information in front of someone who might not have the security clearance to hear it," Jackson said.
"Like that's stopped you before, and you started it," Mitchell said. "Steve, have you signed a non-disclosure agreement?"
"Unfortunately, yes," Rogers said.
"There, now you know," Mitchell said, starting up the car.
Jackson glared, but he let it drop.
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1830, and Rogers was sitting on a picnic table outside the main hangar, staring off into the distance. Mitchell or someone was supposed to give him a ride back into town, but he really didn't care. So much to assimilate, and not much time to do it. Maybe he wasn't the one for the job. Stark would've been a better fit, with the technology and everything. Or not. That was probably why he was sitting where he was, waiting, sleeves rolled up, wondering for the millionth time what the hell he was doing. Well, it sure beat the hell out of sitting in a briefing at SHIELD headquarters in New York, trying to figure out all the cloak and dagger stuff. This, he could deal with.
Except he heard the noise he now associated with Cybertronian footsteps, although these were muted, like the being making them wasn't as big as the rest. He turned around, seeing Elita-1 coming out of the hangar.
"Busy day?" the femme asked, hands on hips, head tilted, much like a human female.
"Yes, ma'am," Rogers said.
"Call me Elita," she said. "I hope you weren't overwhelmed today."
"A little," Rogers said. "It's a lot to take in."
"For you, much more than the other humans," she said. "Chosen for something that separated you from the rest. Much like Optimus."
"I don't know about that," Rogers said.
"It's why you're here," Elita said. "You can offer the other humans a perspective they can understand."
"I hope you're right," Rogers said. "I always seem to be walking into situations where the odds are riding on me."
The femme's expression changed to what he assumed was the Cybertronian version of a smile.
"Yet you haven't broken," she said. "Humans are a valiant species. I'm proud to know you."
"Thanks," Rogers said.
"Mitchell is running late, and won't be able to give you a ride," Elita said. "You need transport, so I volunteer."
"You don't have to," Rogers said.
"Of those on base, my sisters and I possess modes that you will be most comfortable with, but as Arcee is carrying, and Chromia has assumed the duties of weapons officer, it falls to me," Elita said. "I won't mind playing guardian for a few days."
She transformed into her vehicular mode, and Rogers grinned. He stood, put on his jacket, slinging a leg over the motorcycle.
"Hold on," Elita said.
Rogers did as he was told, and not even the wind howling in his face could wipe the smile off his lips.
