Colorado Springs, Colorado, USA, is weathered with average temperatures, scattered clouds, and gusty light winds. All day, it's been gloomy.

At Cheyenne Mountain, General Hammond is in his office filing correspondent paperwork surrounding SG teams 15 and 24. He's sitting at his computer, swiftly typing with speedy proficiency as the text on the desktop screen appears slower than the motions of his fingers. Planet Tau'ri has accommodated upgraded technology throughout Command, including desktops. Still, the general rejected the submission and expressed his urge to preserve the desktop, even though others would consider the machine to be on its last life.

Up the spiraling staircase, both access doors that join his office are open, and the ambient movements, voices, and jolly-good of soldiers are noisy yet inviting. Down numerous levels below the Mountain and through the 'gate, the day has been eminent and triumphant thus far. Joint-operating units 15 and 24 have recently returned from their exploration assignment on planets PI8-U65 and PA9-1CCX with remarkable discoveries. There are three teams off-world — units 1, 2, and 11. SG-1's assignment is to diplomatically obtain a new allyship and bartering companion with a society in acquaintanceship to an original Race called Cyria, or 81-F6Q. SG-2's assignment is researching the desolate, once-occupied-by-the-goa'uld planet of REEVE, or PD+012. Lastly, SG-11 embarked on PS2-980 with freight of overload machinery as they scientifically trial-and-error the effectiveness of the weaponry and extent of modification.

On paper, it appears that SG-1 got an uncomplicated assignment amongst the trio as they're only associating themselves with a new society, but, in actuality, they got the short end of the stick. At Command, the control panel technicians are hesitant about their front-line team as the major requested a 672 earlier that day, Earthside time. To them, that act suggests something is amiss amongst the squad or even for a particular individual.

Technicians Davis, Simmons, and Harriman sit in their respective seats in the control room, tinkering with the software to their expertise. Hour 1400, the established check-in time mandated for all off-world teams, is approaching.

"First check-in time is approaching," announces Harriman, and the youthful technicians nod in understanding. Like a routine, the trio rises from their seats, strides to the wall-organizer to retrieve a GDO, and begins typing a message to 1, 2, and 11. Almost automatically, Colonel Ferretti and Edward respond. Davis and Harriman return to their seat to insert the information into the database. From behind them, Simmons sends the code again, nervously waiting for a response from O'Neill.

It doesn't come.

"Um," he uncertainly begins, "Colonel O'Neill hasn't responded twice now."

"Attempt to patch Major Carter, Doctor Jackson, or Mister Teal'c," offers Davis from her seat. She rises once more to stow the GDO back into its place on the wall-organizer, then stands before Simmons. He tilts the screen towards her.

After a few beats, Davis frowns and carefully reaches for the device, saying, "Let me see." She presses buttons in an integrated technique, and various applications form on the screen. Coming to a realization, she quickly pivots and treks down the right-side staircase and around the corner. Simmons is on her tail, and Harriman comically glances over his shoulder and then shrugs. Once, there were three, and now there's one.

After numerous twists and turns through the maze of hallways, it's apparent that the youthful technicians are speedily-but-professionally steering toward the maintenance corridor.

"Where are we going?" questions Simmons through several deep breaths. He's never been this way.

"Since Major Carter isn't here, the successor is Siler. He may know the answers," replies Davis.

"OK, but the answers to what?" asks the youngest technician, but there's no answer.

The maintenance corridor is overwhelmingly clamorous and flashy, with the squeaking and clanking of machinery and frantic arc-flashing from wielding and doing whatever else. A chained fence and security pad isolates — and shields — non-maintenance personnel from squandering near something they're not authorized to be near.

An airperson is stationed outside, their hands behind their back and engagement ahead. Davis saunters to the pad and inserts a code that unlocks the fence. The airperson disengages and peeks at the technicians, perhaps wondering why they're outside the control room and in the maintenance corridor. Simmons delivers an uneasy smile their way and quickly follows after the senior technician. In the hallway, Davis grabs spare headphones and eyewear for herself and another set for Simmons. They put the protection items on before venturing further into the first wing of the massive section, passing cubbies, locker rooms, washrooms, break rooms, and such.

"What are we doing here?" whispers Simmons. It's not helpful since they've got headphones in, and their location doesn't see a moment of silence, but there's an A for Effort. Davis doesn't respond because she doesn't hear the question.

Davis' head is on a swivel as she's seeking someone. It's an understatement of the overwhelming maintenance corridor, with towers of machinery and tools neatly stacked left and right that unknowingly construct mazes and shelves containing God knows what. "Siler!" she calls out as she peeks around this and that.

Siler is close to the center of the main room, overseeing other mechanics conducting operations on MALPs, UAVs, and other machinery and weaponry in the adjoining wing.

"Siler, here!" sweetly answers the primary mechanic of Command with a lift of his right, gloved hand. His eyes are concealed behind the customized protective eyewear with the abbreviation SS on the sides. If he's surprised to see two technicians from the control room in one of the base's maintenance wings, he doesn't easily show it. All those moments kicking it with SG-1 and other teams come in handy. "What can I do you for?"

"Sergeant," starts Davis, recognizing the need to remain professional during office hours and in the presence of others, "there's been an absence of communication with SG-1. As you know, the first check-in has undergone; however, we've only been capable of reporting with the other two off-world teams, 2 and 11, not with 1."

The technical-engineer nods in comprehension. He motions towards a passageway that curves around the corner, signaling the others to follow him. Not much conversing occurs in a setting like Stargate Command's designated maintenance corridor and adjoining wings, so all signals, lights, and other forms of communication must be retained. Siler leads them to his office, and Simmons closes the door while Davis sits in one of the seats before the desk. The trio removes the protective gear now that they're away from the overbearing, sensory-overload of the main corridor.

"We have another check-in, though, right? If I'm not mistaken, the next one is at 1700. How may I be of service?"

Davis turns to Simmons with an expression interpreted as, "State your position."

The youngest technician clears his throat and slides to the edge of his seat, his forearms resting on his knees. The new position causes his tucked shirt to tighten around his throat, and he reaches to loosen the fabric. "Getting to the jest: SG-1 has missed their curfew. It's nothing new; it's something that's happened plenty of times. This time, though—" he pauses and glances at Davis, who rotates her hand in a get-on-with-it manner. He continues, "—it appears that all of their GDOs are offline, or a barrier or something is jamming the signal from here at Command and through the 'gate."

Davis nods her head. She adds to his statement, "Right. And, with the new batch of GDOs issued to all units, that shouldn't be a problem, at least until thus far. We programmed numerous functions, especially one that automatically pinpoints the location of the teams off-world to Command and vice versa. There's another program that heightens communication even away from the frequency of the MALP."

"Is the likelihood of SG-1 being away from their GDOs in the equation?" asks Siler as he leans back in his chair, releasing the tension from his back muscles.

"The four of them mysteriously being away from the device isn't, no. Earlier, we received a message from Major Carter requesting a 672," responds Davis. She and the sergeant share a non-verbal expression, and Simmons darts his head between them.

"That alone alerts us towards something serious. Does the general know?"

The control panel technicians glance at each other, and Simmons chooses to respond, albeit apprehensive and with zero spirit. "Um, no. See, as you know, the general wasn't on base earlier until the return of SGs 15 and 24, which was scheduled today. Since then, as far as I know, he's been in his office filing paperwork. Oh, and, um, neither was — is — the second-in-command, as he's the leader of our front-line team, you see. But, our third-in-command — if that's even a thing — is aware. We reported to Colonel Reynolds as per regulation."

Siler clears his throat and readjusts his glasses. He states, "This is definitely something. Unfortunately, I cannot do anything from my position now without being deeded. If you must understand, the other mechanics and I are prompted with daily duties that require our awareness. We will present our outcome to the general and brass members later this week. I will tell you, though, that the general may need to be aware of this sooner than later if Colonel Reynolds hasn't beaten us to it. We'll know how to proceed successfully once we're all on the same page."

"We understand, Siler. Thank you for your time," respectfully reacts Davis as she and Simmons rise from their seat and embarks on their exit.

Well, how unfortunate. Like now, the military and its excessive rules sometimes get them stuck in a pickle. On any other given day, the technician-engineer would've tweedled with the device and undisclosed information no-one else would've been able to uncover. Well, besides someone like Major Carter, of course.

Davis and Simmons return to the control panel room. Harriman is leaning over a panel with a clipboard, recording some information. He glances over his shoulder as the duo return to their posts. "Welcome back. Did you two find what you were jointly looking for?"

The woman sighs and shakes her head. "Unfortunately, no."

Harriman nods his head and returns to his work. The other technicians follow suit.

Hours pass, and within it, SG-11 returns from PS2-980. Airpersons and SFs load the embarkation room to assist the soldiers with their equipment. Comically, like clockwork, the general stands behind Harriman as he overlooks one of his squads safely returning to Earthside. "Welcome home, SG-11," he sounds through the microphone.

More hours pass, and comes 0700.

"Second check-in. Attempt to patch the members of SG-1," instructs the senior technician to Simmons.

Out comes the GDO. The youngest technician inserts his credentials into the device before contacting a front-line team member. Beats of silence awkwardly pass, with him looking to his left and right at nothing.

"Uh, nothing's happening," he says into the air.

Now that increases the attention of good ol' Walter Harriman as the white-haired man lifts his head, his fingers ceasing over the keyboard. "That's impossible," he mutters, then stands. "Better than anyone, Colonel O'Neill knows the importance of check-ins and missing curfew. Even if we can't reach him or Major Carter, we can at least get through to Teal'c. This is uncommon."

Davis exits her seat and stands beside her comrades, the trio unknowingly creating a circle. "Yes, and Major Carter requested a 672 earlier."

"Woah, woah, WOAH," harshly-whispers Harriman. He regards Simmons with a disapproving gaze. "Why didn't you tell me this?!"

The youngest technician visibly swallows. "I didn't know I needed to. I'm sorry. I told Colonel Reynolds, though."

"As the senior technician, I must also know something like that. This is serious. We have to inform the general," advises Harriman.

With a premature batch of conviction, Simmons chastises with a mocking voice, "Oh, and tell him what? Sorry, general. Your top technicians cannot contact our front-line team, y'know, the team that sets the tone for the Tau'ri. And you'll never believe this: Major Carter requested a 672. Hugs and kisses, your top-three technicians."

Hilariously, Davis and Harriman blankly stare at the younger man, then shrugs and nods.

"Yeah, that may do it, actually," humorously chimes Davis.

"OK, then it's settled. Now, as the senior technician, I recommend you two to enter first. Off you go," declares Harriman.

The woman sighs and rolls her eyes. She deadpans, "Walter, the chain-of-command is literally pointless in our job, especially as we sit side-by-side with the exact — if not similar — task."

Stargate Command's top-three panel technicians round the spiraling staircase and towards their boss's office to report to said man that Major Carter's 672 request was the latest communication with the front-line team who's now neglected the two mandated check-ins and curfew.

Pray for them — and SG-1.