Title: Scene from the Cutting Room Floor
Summary: A scene that was cut from my story Phantoms and Slayers, which turned into a ficlet about two cell-mates. That being said, chapter twenty-nine of P&S has to be read for this to really make sense.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Nada. Ziltch. Zippo. Uh-uh, not mine. It all belongs to others, who happen to NOT be me.
AN: Okay, so, like I said, this was originally supposed to be part of my Phantoms and Slayers story, but it got cut and changed into something else. However, because I’m a pack rat and save everything I write incase I ever need it for something else, it got saved with my other deleted stuff. Months later, I’m looking through the file, come across this, and thought I’d post it.
That being said, I’ve a bit of a challenge for you lovely people. Okay, so you know it’s a Stargate SG-1 cross, but the first person who successfully tells me what other fandom was crossed here and who the two characters are will get a special little shout out when I continue the Phantoms story with the next installment, Witches and Clones (the title might change, but that’s what it is right now). And if you catch the other fandom mentioned here (aside from Buffy) you’ll get a cookie. :) Oh, and if you figure out who our stars are, please forgive me if they’re a bit OOC. It’s the first I wrote either one of them.
Okay, on with the ficlet.
Sam groaned and pulled at his wrist that were bound to the wall in something these...people called binders. He hadn’t been here long, a few days at most, but it felt like an eternity and Sam knew he wouldn’t last in this place. Bloody hell. If he knew what was inside that homeless shelter that those kids were disappearing from, he would have never gone into investigate alone. He was just glad Mya wasn’t there. He couldn’t stand the thought her being trapped in this hell along with him.
The door to what he could only describe as his cell opened and a pair of the guards came inside, dragging a young boy between them. He looked to be about fifteen, maybe sixteen if Sam squinted, but had the colorful vocabulary of twenty year military veteran. Well, an American military veteran at any rate.
After they bound him to the wall across from Sam - and more curses and threats and blows from the guards were exchanged with the boy - the two large creature left them alone in the small, dark room.
“Are you all right?” Sam asked the boy.
“Yeah. Nothing a few beers and a weekend fly-fishing wouldn’t cure,” the boy said. Beer and fly-fishing? Those were two things that Sam was fairly certain that most fifteen-year-olds were a bit young for, but, before he could comment, the boy said, “I’m Jack, by the way.”
“Nice to meet you, Sammy,” Jack said. “Well, seeing how you actually asked how I am and you’re willing to give me your name, I take it you must be pretty new to the Snakehead Wannabe Club here, huh?”
Sam blinked and briefly wondered what the ‘Snakehead Wannabes’ was, but said, “Yeah, just couple of days.”
“Thought so,” Jack said, leaning back against the wall. It looked rather awkward with his hands bound over his head. “I’ve been here awhile now, couple of months I think, but it gets kind of hard to tell time here after awhile.”
“You know who these people are, then?” Sam asked.
“My guess, aliens of some kind,” Jack said nonchalantly, as if it were common knowledge.
Sam stared at the boy. He would have sworn that Jack was smiling - or at least smirking - at him. “Alien,” Sam repeated. “Like ET or Spock or something?”
“Yup,” Jack said, popping the ‘p’, “and we’re stuck here with ‘em.” Sighing dramatically, he added, “Where’s Sigourney Weaver when you need her, huh?”
“That’s ridiculous,” Sam snapped. “Aliens. Really. Next thing you’ll be telling me that the Royal Family are werewolves. No, there has to be a perfectly logical explanation to this.”
“Oh, yeah? Like what?” Jack challenged.
“I don’t know! Mass hallucination. A slave ring that cuts up their faces to hide their identities. A gang on PCP. Something! But I can assure you, Jack, there are no such things as aliens!”
This time, Jack stared at him with a bemused and bewildered look. “A gang on PCP? Who the hell would be stupid enough to believe that? Or think of that in the first place?”
“It’s a logical explanation,” Sam said slowly.
“Right,” Jack said, drawing out word.
Sam opened his mouth to plead his case, but was cut short when the binders around his wrists sudden loosen and the opened altogether. His arms had been asleep for some time and throbbed painfully, and he wasn’t quiet sure he could stand just yet, but Sam pushed himself up off the floor anyway. Jack was already on his feet and bouncing towards the door. With one push, it swung opened slightly and Jack was already grinning again.
“Well, Sammy, I think this our cue,” he said, glancing out into the hall before turning back to Sam. “Unless you wanna stay here.”
Feeling steadier on his feet, Sam strode across the cell as purposely as he could, only shaking and nearly falling twice. “I’d rather be stuck in 1973,” he said, pushing Jack out the way, glancing up and down the empty hallway, then slipping outside.
Jack chuckled and followed him out. “1973, huh. Now that really would be hell.”