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Title: Security Breach
Fandom: Stargate: SG-1 and The Real Ghostbusters
Summary: For the A Ficathon Walks Into A Bar challenge; Jack O'Neill walks into a bar and meets... Ray Stantz!
Word Count: ~675
Spoilers: Very, very minor for season 8+ of SG-1
Warnings: Contains beer and geekery.
Disclaimer: Disclaimer: Stargate: SG-1 and The Real Ghostbusters are the property of their respective copyright holders; characters, situations, etc. of both are included in this work under the principle of Fair Use, and no infringement of copyright is intended. All other components of this work are © 31 March 2010 Liz A. Vogel.
Notes: Thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
signeh for the title, and to the housemate for an emergency-rush beta!
Security Breach
by Liz A. Vogel
The bar was cool and dim, and General Jack O'Neill removed his sunglasses and stepped aside from the door while his eyes adjusted. Thanks to years of practice, he was able to slouch even while wearing dress blues as he settled onto a barstool. "Beer," he said wearily to the bartender. One of these days, he was going to have to get promoted to a rank where he could excuse himself from five-hour finance meetings. Ignoring that that rank was probably called civilian, he took a long swig.
Voices at a nearby table caught his attention. A pudgy, middle-aged man was expounding about something to his companions with an enthusiasm that automatically read as "science geek" to O'Neill's ear. The fellow looked about O'Neill's age, though with a lot less gray streaking the auburn hair above a still-boyish face. The polysyllabic prattle sounded strangely familiar, and it made a soothing backdrop to his much-needed beer, until:
"...the glowing eyes were weird, but what was really creepy was the voice -- like a reverb distorter in a submarine. And then it...."
O'Neill lost the next bit, between another customer's order and concentrating on not choking on his beer. But the speaker noticed his interest, and half-turned in his chair to include him.
"But the really cool part was when it started shooting lighting from its fingers! Boy, I thought we'd had it then! It was almost as powerful as the Volaxis Invocation of 1997."
The flow of technobabble started up again, and O'Neill was soon lost in a sea of sesquipedalia. The other two people at the table were nodding along in apparent fascination, and while O'Neill was glad to not have to eavesdrop inconspicuously, he wasn't sure he appreciated being classed in the same category as that pair of pencil-necks. He caught a couple of phrases like "psycho-kinetic manifestation" and "ectoplasmic resonance" and the penny dropped; there was a UFO and paranormal convention going on at the hotel down the street. He remembered because the traffic around the Air Force Administrative Building had been even worse than usual yesterday, thanks to a small but rabid group of protesters demanding that the government 'fess up about Area 51. This bunch were apparently some more escapees from that convention, albeit better behaved and noticeably lacking in tin-foil headgear.
Which didn't change the fact that this guy's description was making the hair stand up on the back of O'Neill's neck, and not because of the General's natural aversion to scientific jargon. If a Goa'uld really had turned up in -- had the guy said Times Square? -- that could only mean trouble.
"...a Class Seven phantasm! But then Winston dropped a telephone line across its path, which shorted it out so we could get a couple of containment streams on it, and pow! Right into the trap!"
Well, that didn't sound like any Goa'uld O'Neill had ever heard of. Not that he had the first idea what a "containment stream" was, but he was pretty sure any self-respecting Goa'uld would've made it clear in short order that it wasn't a ghost. It probably wouldn't hurt to send someone over to the convention to check this guy out, just in case, but he could relax and finish his beer first.
"Ah, Raymond, there you are." The deep voice cut across the flow of technobabble. O'Neill glanced up and suppressed a double-take; he'd been around the galaxy enough to have seen weirder things than a guy wearing a blond tornado on top of his head, after all. "If you intend to make our presentation, we need to return to the hotel now."
"Oh, sure, Egon." The storyteller excused himself to his companions, waved a cheerful good-bye to O'Neill, and hurried out with his ectomorphic friend. O'Neill raised his beer in a casual farewell, then drained it.
A bizarre encounter, even by his standards. But it still beat a five-hour finance meeting.
Title: Security Breach
Fandom: Stargate: SG-1 and The Real Ghostbusters
Summary: For the A Ficathon Walks Into A Bar challenge; Jack O'Neill walks into a bar and meets... Ray Stantz!
Word Count: ~675
Spoilers: Very, very minor for season 8+ of SG-1
Warnings: Contains beer and geekery.
Disclaimer: Disclaimer: Stargate: SG-1 and The Real Ghostbusters are the property of their respective copyright holders; characters, situations, etc. of both are included in this work under the principle of Fair Use, and no infringement of copyright is intended. All other components of this work are © 31 March 2010 Liz A. Vogel.
Notes: Thanks to
signeh for the title, and to the housemate for an emergency-rush beta!by Liz A. Vogel
The bar was cool and dim, and General Jack O'Neill removed his sunglasses and stepped aside from the door while his eyes adjusted. Thanks to years of practice, he was able to slouch even while wearing dress blues as he settled onto a barstool. "Beer," he said wearily to the bartender. One of these days, he was going to have to get promoted to a rank where he could excuse himself from five-hour finance meetings. Ignoring that that rank was probably called civilian, he took a long swig.
Voices at a nearby table caught his attention. A pudgy, middle-aged man was expounding about something to his companions with an enthusiasm that automatically read as "science geek" to O'Neill's ear. The fellow looked about O'Neill's age, though with a lot less gray streaking the auburn hair above a still-boyish face. The polysyllabic prattle sounded strangely familiar, and it made a soothing backdrop to his much-needed beer, until:
"...the glowing eyes were weird, but what was really creepy was the voice -- like a reverb distorter in a submarine. And then it...."
O'Neill lost the next bit, between another customer's order and concentrating on not choking on his beer. But the speaker noticed his interest, and half-turned in his chair to include him.
"But the really cool part was when it started shooting lighting from its fingers! Boy, I thought we'd had it then! It was almost as powerful as the Volaxis Invocation of 1997."
The flow of technobabble started up again, and O'Neill was soon lost in a sea of sesquipedalia. The other two people at the table were nodding along in apparent fascination, and while O'Neill was glad to not have to eavesdrop inconspicuously, he wasn't sure he appreciated being classed in the same category as that pair of pencil-necks. He caught a couple of phrases like "psycho-kinetic manifestation" and "ectoplasmic resonance" and the penny dropped; there was a UFO and paranormal convention going on at the hotel down the street. He remembered because the traffic around the Air Force Administrative Building had been even worse than usual yesterday, thanks to a small but rabid group of protesters demanding that the government 'fess up about Area 51. This bunch were apparently some more escapees from that convention, albeit better behaved and noticeably lacking in tin-foil headgear.
Which didn't change the fact that this guy's description was making the hair stand up on the back of O'Neill's neck, and not because of the General's natural aversion to scientific jargon. If a Goa'uld really had turned up in -- had the guy said Times Square? -- that could only mean trouble.
"...a Class Seven phantasm! But then Winston dropped a telephone line across its path, which shorted it out so we could get a couple of containment streams on it, and pow! Right into the trap!"
Well, that didn't sound like any Goa'uld O'Neill had ever heard of. Not that he had the first idea what a "containment stream" was, but he was pretty sure any self-respecting Goa'uld would've made it clear in short order that it wasn't a ghost. It probably wouldn't hurt to send someone over to the convention to check this guy out, just in case, but he could relax and finish his beer first.
"Ah, Raymond, there you are." The deep voice cut across the flow of technobabble. O'Neill glanced up and suppressed a double-take; he'd been around the galaxy enough to have seen weirder things than a guy wearing a blond tornado on top of his head, after all. "If you intend to make our presentation, we need to return to the hotel now."
"Oh, sure, Egon." The storyteller excused himself to his companions, waved a cheerful good-bye to O'Neill, and hurried out with his ectomorphic friend. O'Neill raised his beer in a casual farewell, then drained it.
A bizarre encounter, even by his standards. But it still beat a five-hour finance meeting.