"What do you mean I'm drafted?" Methos asked, bemused as he sat on a bench in the locker room tying his shoes. "You can't draft me. I'm not a citizen. And besides, didn't you get it? I already agreed to work with you."
"You agreed to honor the contract you signed in Paris," Jack informed him. "But if you ever want to go through that gate, you're going to have to sign on the dotted line."
"What about Daniel?"
"Technically, he's just a civilian observer. He also signed a waiver absolving the military or the United States government of any indemnity in the case of loss of limb or life - and we have a Presidential order allowing him access. Think you could stand up to that kind of scrutiny, Methos?"
Bastard! he thought, annoyed. Of course he couldn't and Jack knew that.
"You still can't draft me. As I said, I'm not a citizen."
"You are and I can. You fought in the American Revolution. Whether you knew it or not you were automatically granted citizenship at that time. And that law still exists. You fight under our flag, you become one of us. As for drafting you, there's a little known clause in the Constitution that allows for any citizen, regardless of age or sex, to be conscripted if they have a skill that can't be duplicated and that skill is required - war time or not. Well, you do and I require it."
Methos frowned. He had forgotten about that sneaky little loophole the framers of that blasted document had designed. "So you can draft me. Fine. But why?"
O'Neill suddenly smiled. "You've been a soldier for a very long time and I want you at my back. I need someone with your strengths. Daniel and Sam are first and foremost academics. And Teal'c has his own set of problems. My first team through the gate was, with the exception of Daniel, a hand picked squad who'd seen combat with Special Forces. Only two came back alive and they died not long after we opened the gate for the second time."
Methos nodded. "And I have the advantage of being both an academic and a seasoned fighter. Well," he sighed, sitting up and resting his arms on his thighs. "I can't fault your logic." He shook his head slowly. "Still, I haven't served in battle for more than a century. In the armed forces, yes. But not as a combatant."
"What were you?"
"Well, I worked as a secretary in the war office during the First World War and as a code cracker in MI during the second. I never got near any actual fighting."
"Why not?" Jack asked curiously as Methos stood.
"Those are bloody big bombs you've gone and invented! Take your fucking head off in one shot. I want to live, Colonel. Not die in some meaningless skirmish in a cause that will eventually be forgotten. But if I am to die, I want it to be by the hand of another Immortal. Hopefully, one who deserves what I have to offer."
"That Quickie thing, huh?"
Methos smiled. "It's called a Quickening. And yes, that's exactly why."
"Okay, well we don't see too many bombs. Too primitive I guess for those oh-so-sophisticated alien bad guys. Lots of energy weapons and electronics that will fry your brain of course."
"Of course," Methos responded drolly.
"Anyway, if you want to go through the gate, this is your only option. Take it or leave it."
Methos sighed and followed Jack into the hall. You're a fool, he told himself firmly. But saving the world aside, there was still that damnable gate. That damned, incredible Stargate.
In his mind's eye Methos saw a flash of his own hand holding a stone knife as he carefully skinned some animal he'd caught. From that to this, he thought, and his heart leapt with a profound sense of joy. He'd lived to see this! Against all the odds he'd made it this far. Into a future he could never have imagined, let alone dreamed of even a century before. This was better than H.G. Wells or Jules Verne, both of whom he'd known and whose books he'd once loved.
"You are an evil, manipulative son of a bitch, Jack O'Neill," Methos told him.
"But you want to go through the Stargate." Jack gave him a wide slow smile.
"Of course I want to! Now, where do I sign?"
"Come on in," O'Neill gestured at Methos once he'd finally found the colonel's office. Methos looked around the small room with its banged up steel desk, squeaky metal chairs, half a dozen slowly rusting file cabinets and one antique manual typewriter sitting in the center of the desk and nearly shuddered.
"This is your office?" he asked dubiously, even though the colonel's name was on the door.
"I know. I know," O'Neill nodded. "I should requisition some new stuff. But hell, I'm hardly ever in here. Am I, Teal'c?"
The big man nodded. "It is true. I have never seen Colonel O'Neill in this office."
O'Neill held out his hands as if to say, "See? I told you," and waved Methos to a chair.
"I've done most of it," he gestured at the typewriter in front of him which held some sort of form wrapped around its cylinder. "I just need you to help play fill in the blanks. You okay with that?" Methos said nothing, but took a chair and looked expectantly at Jack.
"Not having second thoughts are you?"
"Along with third, fourth and fifth," Methos sighed.
"You can still change your mind," O'Neill offered.
Methos gave him a disgusted sneer. If he could have, he would have. He should know, he'd really tried. "Let's just get on with it."
Jack shrugged. "Okay. Full name and date of birth. Oops. Sorry," O'Neill grinned apologetically. "Could have done that one myself. M-E-T-" he started to type.
"Are you mad?!" Methos suddenly stood up. "You can't put my real name on there!"
"H-O-S. Methos. I have to. Law says so." He glanced up, grinning happily. "Don't worry so much," he waved Methos back into his seat. "No one reads this stuff anyway once it's in the computer."
Methos rolled his eyes and sat down. That much was probably true given the nature of bureaucracies in general, but he'd lodge a complaint with General Hammond anyway. A public record of his name and stats hadn't ever been part of their deal.
"Middle initial?"
Methos looked at the man as if he'd lost his mind.
"Guess not, huh?"
"O'Neill," Methos sighed in exasperation. "Don't try my patience."
"O," Teal'c rumbled from his place near the cabinets. "The middle letter must be O."
"O?" Methos raised an eyebrow. "And how do you figure that?"
"Colonel O'Neill once explained to me the purpose of a second or third name to identify one with a clan or place of birth. Did you not?"
"I did," O'Neill nodded.
"So, if I am Teal'c O. Chulak as you are Jack O. Neill then he must be Methos O. Earth."
Methos squeezed the bridge of his nose and tried not to laugh.
"Well if ya gotta have a name..." Jack grinned.
"Thank you, Teal'c," Methos said, then waved a hand to tell O'Neill to just do it and move on. "And I've no doubt, my young friend, that one day you too shall discover that not only have you served your people well, but that they have repaid you by turning your name to mud."
"Date and place of birth? Oh, I know that! Chal-co-li-thic era," Jack typed slowly. "Planet Dirt."
Methos chuckled. O'Neill had better hope no one else read this, or someone would likely schedule him for a psych evaluation - and not just his strange inductee.
"Social security number?"
"000-00-0001," Methos grinned as Jack looked up.
"First in line, eh?"
"Early riser," Methos shrugged negligently.
"Works for me. Mother's maiden name?"
"Terra," Methos answered promptly.
"Father's name?"
"Firma."
Jack snorted. "Big guy, huh?"
"24,000 miles in circumference." Methos squared his shoulders and smirked.
"Ouch! Okay. List job titles and previous places of employment."
"Which ones?"
"Well, let's start with the longest period you've ever worked and go from there."
"Death. One thousand, three hundred seventeen years."
"Death?" Jack sat back from the typewriter and stared at him.
Methos nodded. He'd wanted him on the team so badly, then he really ought to know just what he was getting. "Yes. Death. As in Revelations. You know, the fourth seal, rode a pale horse, Hades followed behind. That was me. Death."
"O-kay," Jack nodded skeptically and typed. "Angel of Death."
"Trust me, O'Neill," Methos said quite seriously, leaning forward. "I was no angel."
The colonel frowned and searched through his drawers until he found an old fashioned eraser. He rubbed away the words, then blew on the page and laid his hands on the keys. "No angel. Right. Minion of Satan," he typed instead, then pulled the form out of the machine, ignoring Methos' laughter. "I think that about does it. Teal'c, please give Satan's minion here his BDUs."
Methos took the pile of clothes, glanced at his name boldly stenciled across the pocket and tossed them aside, no longer laughing. "Now that's not funny, O'Neill."
"Okay. I didn't know. I'll have them put the O'Earth on later. All right?" He slapped the paper down in front of Methos. "X marks the spot, kid. Sign right here."
Furious, Methos stood and reached for the document intending to tear it up, but before he could take it someone knocked at the door.
"Hey, Colonel," a young Marine poked his head in. "If you're done here, could we have our store room back?"
Methos snatched up the paper and glanced at it, then down at the typewriter which he suddenly realized held no ribbon, then back at the computerized, neatly filled out form. It listed his name as Adam Pierson with all the pertinent information he'd already provided. He picked up the uniform and peeled the label off the pocket. Underneath, it thankfully read Pierson.
"Bastard!" Methos laughed, falling back into the chair. Still, he thought, it had been a very long time since anyone had gotten something that elaborate over on him. And he not only appreciated the skill it had taken to pull it off, but the fact that O'Neill liked him well enough to even bother. Practical jokes in the military were considered a sign of affection. With a sigh, he picked up a pen and signed his name with a flourish.
Jack held out his hand and Methos took it.
"Welcome to Stargate Command."
Go to next part.