Before I go crazy on this - a teenager + Super Soldier Serum benefits? Or a teenager as the Alt!Personality Hulk supposedly is (so he's 40 one minute and 14 as soon as he gets emotional?)? Do you have preferences for where he falls in the teen spectrum between 13 and 19? Would you mind SHIELD (and Tony Stark) involvement (Science Bros with a much younger Bruce)?

The potential here - especially with Ross and the Serum Project - is spawning bunnies all over the place.

Frank awoke disoriented and alone.

Dammit. Alone. Wendy was still mad at him, then.

But then he realized he was not in his bed but in a tent, and sunlight was pouring through the canvas. In a tent? What the hell? He cast about himself and saw a tac vest. A P-90. Military gear. Was this a dream? Because -

Frank sat up and looked down at himself and he had legs.

This had to be a dream. Some kind of memory? Because when he’d been doing field exercises and sleeping in tents he was younger, and P-90’s weren’t the military issue assault rifle of choice back then.

But when he grabbed the olive uniform and dragged it close, the name above the breast pocket was Mitchell.

Frank prodded himself in the knee and felt it, and tears came to his eyes.

He’d had so many dreams about being young again, about walking again, but never this vivid. So he was going to enjoy it while it lasted. He still knew how to dress for duty, so he got back into his uniform, got his tac vest and boots on and grabbed his rifle, and then he poked his head out of his tent.

His tent opened onto a small camp, with a fire and four other tents.

He didn't recognize the blonde woman who was breaking down one of the other tents. She smiled at him.

“Glad you could join us. Ready to head back?”

Frank hadn’t served with any women in combat or even trained with them, but this woman had silver oak leaves on her uniform.

“Let him eat first.” The man sitting by the fire had military-short hair and glasses but no rank on his uniform. He cast Frank a look. “Breakfast is MREs. Chicken or mac’n’cheese? It all tastes like chicken.”

Before Frank could answer, another woman said, “Ooh, save the mac’n’cheese for me!”

It took Frank a second, but he recognized her. Black hair in non-regulation pigtails, British accent. It was Vala, who worked with Cameron. She said she worked in payroll, but she was also wearing a uniform and a tac vest.

This was officially the strangest dream ever. But Frank had legs, so he stood up (he stood up) and went to join the others at the fire, accepted the MRE the other man gave him. Jackson, his name was according to his uniform.

Vala was Mal Doran on her uniform. Frank hadn’t realized it was two words when Cameron introduced her.

Frank was completely unprepared for the mountain of a black man who emerged from the fifth tent, also wearing tac gear. Frank couldn't help it. He gaped at the raised gold tattoo on the man’s forehead.

But Jackson said, “Hey Teal’c, come and get it before Vala eats all of it.”

Vala looked offended. “Don't listen to him, Muscles. I'm watching my girlish figure.”

Teal’c. What an unusual name.

“I appreciate your thoughtfulness, Daniel Jackson,” Teal’c said, his voice deep and rumbling, his inflection terribly formal. “But I am not yet hungry and would rather wait until we return to the SGC to consume food. I understand today is blue jello day in the mess hall.”

The blonde light colonel - Carter, according to her uniform - smiled. “You do like your blue jello.” She had her tent broken down quickly and efficiently.

“Did you get all the readings you needed?” Jackson asked.

“Yes.” Carter launched into a highly complicated scientific dissertation that Frank only understood a third of, but Jackson was nodding, and Frank wondered if he was some kind of civilian contractor, also a scientist.

Jackson hadn’t been kidding, though. The MRE tasted like chicken, but Frank ate it anyway, and then he helped break camp.

Vala wasn’t a large woman, but she could more than hold her own, turned down Frank’s offer to help her with her gear by literally turning her nose up, and then she marched away.

“So,” Carter asked, “what are you planning on doing with your downtime?”

Even though the events of this dream were utterly banal - walking through a meadow to some destination unknown, a routine field mission - Frank was still exulting at the sensation of walking, of legs, of going where he wanted without a struggle, without the phantom pain of missing limbs.

“You know, the usual,” Frank said, “stay at home with the wife and kids, maybe finally fix the porch like Wendy’s been getting after me to, take the boys fishing.”

Everyone else ground to a halt, staring at him.

“What’s wrong?” Frank asked.

Jack hadn't known what to think of John Sheppard originally and realized that his own CO’s must have looked at him the same way. Good officer or loose cannon? A man could be both. Jack had been like that once. John was like that too, in his own way.

It started with his attempt to rescue Captain Lyle Holland and continued with his attempt to rescue Colonel Marshall Sumner and hit a high point - in Jack’s book - with taking back Atlantis with all of no actual soldiers to his name, instead two alien warriors and three civilians, only one of whom had regular gate team experience.

After the debrief at the SGC, Woolsey was on the first plane back to DC. Jack was more than content to crash in one of the rooms on base. So he kicked off his boots, sprawled on the bed, and closed his eyes.

His cell phone buzzed.

He sighed and fished it out of his pocket.

And saw he had twenty-seven missed calls in the last eighteen hours.

Twenty of them were from the same person. John Eric Winchester.

Jack listened to the most recent message.

Dammit, O’Neill. Either you're not answering me because you're in on it or you don't care. They took him.

Jack sat bolt upright. Damn. John Eric had called him the first time two years ago when Mini Me listed him as a reference for a job at Winchester Singer Repairs, and they had a cordial enough relationship, with John Eric letting him know how Mini Me was doing (just fine, because he wasn't actually a child, and Jack hadn't believed that embracing high school shtick one bit) and Jack reassuring him Mini Me was really allowed to be on his own.

If Mini Me had been kidnapped, it was The Trust or rogue NID.

Jack could see it all so clearly, either entity trying to seize control of The Chair with both Walking Genes off world.

He tucked his phone between his ear and shoulder and listened to the messages in proper order while he tugged on his boots and the rest of his BDUs.

Sam had gone to Mini Me for help with homework and saw the door had been kicked in. Mini Me was gone and not answering his phone.

John Eric checked with the neighbors and one mentioned seeing a black can pull up in front of the house, but they'd assumed it was legit because the van had Air Force plates and everyone knew young Jonathan had an uncle in the Air Force.

The Trust and NID had been willing to pose as Air Force before.

John Eric reported a call from his son Dean, who was a cadet at the Academy. Dean said he'd received a call from Mini Me. He was quitting the garage, and would someone go and pack up his art collection and put it somewhere safe? The Air Force would take care of the rest.

John Eric and Sam had only just managed to gather Mini Me’s most precious belongings - his art and two boxes under his bed - before another black van pulled up and some young airmen started packing away Mini Me’s entire house like he was being deployed long-term.

Jack thought of the life Mini Me had built for himself, the life Jack had hoped to have when he retired, working with his hands, fishing, season tickets to the opera, memberships at art galleries. It was the perfect life. Jack had been rooting for the kid, figured he was biding his time till he could start trying for serious relationships.

And it had been ruthlessly deconstructed as soon as he was gone.

Jack got to Hank’s office and came up short when he saw Mini Me, hair buzzed short, wearing blues adorned with butter bars, standing opposite Hank’s desk.

“What the hell is going on here?”

“Jack,” Hank began, but Jack jabbed an accusatory finger at Mini Me.

“John Eric blew up my phone while I was stuck on Atlantis and made it sound like you'd been kidnapped by The Trust or a rogue NID outfit.”

Mini Me frowned. “John Eric? Wait - you've been keeping tabs on me?”

“Of course I was!” Jack snapped. “What is all this? What happened to the garage and the Merlin engine and this season’s production of Carmen?”

Hank pursed his lips sourly. “Apparently you weren't keeping close enough tabs on him.”

“No one should've been keeping tabs on me. I'm an adult and a fully-trained soldier,” Mini Me said tightly.

Jack knew that tone of voice. The kid was inches from taking a swing at someone.

Elizabeth stirred when the door to her quarters hissed open.

“What…?”

“Mama, I had a bad dream.”

Elizabeth felt the bed dip slightly beneath someone else’s weight, and then someone tiny and warm snuggled against her side.

She’d had dreams like this before, about the children she’d never had, might never have now that she and Simon were over.

She patted the warm body absently and said, “It’s okay. You’re safe now.” And went back to sleep.

When she really woke, it was because her bedside radio was buzzing.

She scooped it up, fitted it over her ear. “Go for Weir.”

“Ma’am,” Sheppard said, “Lorne is missing.”

“Missing?” Elizabeth echoed.

“He failed to report for duty this morning. I dispatched Marines to his quarters. His bed is empty, looks like it was slept in, but he’s nowhere to be found. Chuck in Control says the Life Signs Detector is reading the appropriate number of life signs given how many teams we have off-world, and none of the life signs are in a remote part of the city.”

“So Major Lorne is still in the city?”

“Yes.”

“In a populated area.”

“Yes.”

“Just not in his quarters.”

“Correct.”

Elizabeth cleared her throat. “And you’re sure this isn’t a case of him oversleeping his alarm after a - vigorous evening.”

“His Marines assure me there is no one with whom Lorne would be -vigorous of an evening, ma’am.”

And then a little voice said, “Mama?”

And suddenly Elizabeth had a very bad feeling. “Sheppard,” she said, “get a medical team to my quarters. Immediately.”

There was a pause, and then he said, “Yes, ma’am.”

Elizabeth remembered her strange dream from the night before, only there was a little boy, maybe five years old, drowning in a USAF t-shirt, sitting on the bed beside her, rubbing his eyes. He had big blue eyes and messy dark hair.

And he was wearing Evan Lorne’s dogtags.

“Mama, I’m hungry.”

“Hey, little guy,” Elizabeth began, and she was suddenly terribly conscious of the fact that was wearing a t-shirt and panties and not much else, “I’m not your mama.”

A thunderous expression creased the child’s brow. “Yes you are.”

Elizabeth reached out, groped for a pair of pants, squirmed into them under the covers. “Look at me,” she said. “Do I look like your mother?”

Stupid question. She had dark hair and blue eyes, just like him.

“Mama, not funny.” He crossed his arms over his chest and pouted at her.

Elizabeth’s door hissed open - just like last night - and Sheppard, Lorne’s marines, Beckett, and two nurses spilled into her room.

The child launched himself at Sheppard, kicking and hitting and shouting, “Baby-killer! Go away!”

Sheppard managed to get the child, letting loose with frankly horrifying epithets, into a control hold.

“Where did this kid come from?” he demanded.

Beckett stared at the child in dismay. “Dr. Weir, are you saying -?”

Prentiss arrived at General O’Neill’s office at 0750 because she liked to be on time and prepared. O’Neill was already seated behind his desk, sipping coffee and working his way through whatever emails had trickled in during the small hours. As much as she’d have preferred to be helping Agent Barrett with the interrogations of the Trust officers they’d arrested yesterday, she was Lieutenant Jonathan O’Neill’s control officer first and an investigator second.

She wondered if there wasn’t some kind of protocol against the level of nepotism going on here. Anyone who looked at Jonathan O’Neill and General O’Neill knew they were related. Prentiss would have guessed father and son, for how similar their looks, but everyone seemed to have a tacit understanding that however closely related the two men were, they weren’t related like that. Prentiss wasn’t sure about the relative morality of blackmailing a young man into covert ops by threatening the career of his older, career military lover (and Prentiss wasn’t sure about the morality of a romantic relationship with such a huge age disparity), but young O’Neill had done a fantastic job, and if keeping Major Evan Lorne dangling by a thread was what kept him in line, it was what kept him in line.

The NID had scored a huge victory against the Trust by taking out key board members of Sheppard Industries yesterday. If Collier and Moreland and the rest were smart, they’d give up names of other Trust officers, of their corporate targets.

“Morning, Agent Prentiss,” General O’Neill said without looking up from his computer.

“Good morning, sir.” She was never sure about ‘morning’ all by itself. It wasn’t a greeting so much as a statement of fact.

“Say, Agent Prentiss, given the chance to go back in time and relive your childhood or teen years or early twenties, what would you change?”

Prentiss blinked at him. “Sir?”

General O’Neill glanced at her briefly. “Me, well, I’d get done with high school as fast as possible. GED and done. It’s true, getting a GED instead of regular diploma means that you earn less over a lifetime - unless you get some kind of higher certification. Which I would totally do. Mechanics, maybe. Engineering? I always did like working with my hands. I’m pretty handy with a wrench and an engine, you know.”

Prentiss knew that was an understatement. General O’Neill had graduated from The Academy with honors received in Military Sciences and Engineering, had gone on to get his masters in Aeronautical Engineering. She knew his reputation for being a wry, simple, down-home cabin man from Minnesota, and she knew it was as calculated as his battle tactics.

“I think I’d spend more time on the things I enjoy, too. Fishing. Art. The opera. Did you see the Denver Opera’s production of Carmen a couple of seasons back? It was amazing. Best soprano I’ve had the pleasure of hearing in a long time. Very talented lady.” General O’Neill could type very fast, for a man who preferred the hunt-and-peck method.

“I hadn’t had the pleasure, sir,” Prentiss said. She knew General O’Neill was a fan of the opera; more than one person had tried to buy their way into his good graces with opera tickets, but he always had season tickets for whatever city he was in.

“One thing I’d definitely do,” General O’Neill said, “is spend more time with the people I love. My wife, if I were married. My son, if I still had him. I don’t think I’d be throwing myself into unnecessary peril at every turn for a pat on the back from The Man.”

Prentiss wasn’t sure if General O’Neill required a response. He had no wife, but he’d once had a son?

And then she realized. He’d had a wife and had a son, then likely lost the son and the wife soon after.

There were pictures of a little boy all over his office. Prentiss had never taken the time to notice them before, because she rarely spent this much time in General O’Neill’s office. The boy was young, eight to ten years old, with dark blond hair and dark eyes. He didn’t look much like General O’Neill. He did, however, look like the woman with him in one of the pictures. It was an old picture, judging by the woman’s haircut and clothes.