MegaMan NT Warrior (Rockman) Fan Fiction ❯ Shooting Stars and Reploid Arms ❯ Chapter 1 ( Chapter 1 )

Well, ladies and gents, we have officially hit the fan. I am doing a crossover that should probably be left undone. I am doing a... Rockman X / SG-1 Crossover....

 

You may send any and all flames my way via reviews.... or e-mail if you get really desperate.

 

 

Shooting Stars and Reploid Arms

 

 

Difference Between a Right and a Left

 

 

 

It had been fast. It had been tricky. But the last thing anyone knew, emergency warp-outs through experimental gates built by the late, mad, archeologist extraordinaire Dr. Cain were not supposed to land you in the middle of where you did not want to go. Especially not in the middle of cornfields.

 

Axl shrugged, taking it in stride as the young boy always had. “Guess we should have taken the left at Albuquerque.”

 

Zero pinned the youngster with a glare, effectively silencing him. X, on the other hand, was coming as close as he ever could to having a nervous breakdown about something.

 

“I can't raise HQ. Every time I try to connect to a known Hunter satellite, I get static. It's as if every satellite the Hunters own for communication just up and vanished.”

 

Both Zero and Axl exchanged a worried look. They tapped their own communicators, connecting them to what should have been known satellite positions. Zero even tried calling the Unit Zero-only com center. He was greeted by nothing more than sharp static.

 

“The warp could have kicked our coms out?” Zero tried. X shook his head, countering the point.

 

“Scans say we're fine.”

 

Axl was still fiddling with his internal radio, calling up familiar radio frequencies. He stopped on one particular one, blinked several times, and shuddered.

 

“We're not in Kansas anymore, guys.”

 

“Thank you, Captain of the Obvious,” Zero grumbled, all the while trying to figure out why his communication system was no longer working.

 

“No, seriously, I do not think we're where we were supposed to be.”

 

“Axl. We're standing in the middle of a cornfield,” X sniped, all of his interest directed towards the small scanning panel on his forearm.

 

“No. I mean we're not in the same time as we're supposed to be.”

 

Both Class-S Hunters snapped up from their work, looking at the younger with eyes ranging from disbelieve to shock.

 

“Why, exactly, would you believe we're not in the right timeframe?” Zero asked, the sarcasm all but dripping from his tone.

 

“Radio frequency 99.1 FM just announced the Wall Street stock report.”

 

“So we're in America. No proof there was a time jump.” X's voice was as calm as Zero's was sarcastic.

 

“The Stock report for January 6, 2002; not for June 17, 21XX; and it sounded current. No mention of Maverick attacks. No notice of possible radiation storms. Hell, there's not even any music on this station anymore!” His voice reached the height of its protest, showing he found the greatest offence being the station in question was giving only news.

 

“Great way to prioritize, kid,” Axl's Commanding Hunter growled lightly in annoyance.

 

The Red Hunter tuned his radio to the offending station, waiting for one of Axl's favorite punk-rock-techno songs to come blaring at him. Instead he found the soft sounds of a cello quartet echoing lightly through his audios. A few moments after the celli the date, time, and local traffic report started up. His jaw dropped. X's jaw was not very far behind.

 

“...We've been time-warped... To the 21st Century...”

 

“No Mavericks. No war. No...anything...”

 

“...No job...” Axl blurt out. Both Hunters glared at him. “What? If we want to survive long enough for the others to figure out how to rescue us, we kinda need money. I mean... isn't it a universal constant? The thing which makes the world go round?”

 

There was silence in the corn-husked air for more seconds than Axl cared to count, before Zero snorted back a shocked laugh.

 

“Heh. Something smart. Out of Axl. Who'd `ve thought?”

 

*

 

Colonel Jonothan “Jack” O'Neill growled both under his breath and over it on his way down to the med center. His leg was torn, again. He had another stupid, stupid arrow stuck in it. Again. At least this time he wasn't the only one with arrows in various body parts. A few of the newly formed SG-6 had gotten arrows up their collective asses as well. And he really did mean up their asses.

 

Or...at least relatively closer to being up the wrong end than in the calf. Or maybe his was in the thigh? No... No, not enough bleeding for it to have hit the thigh. This baby had hit rock solid muscle. Also known as his big fat,

 

“Overgrown, overbearing-”

 

“Thick headed, stubborn, piece of...!” Profanity echoed in agreement with whatever Janet had been yelling about. Blinking, Jack looked around a draw curtain to find said Chief Medical Officer in the middle of throwing three different kinds of fits.

 

Fit one was reserved for whenever someone came in with a medical injury from a primitive weapon, in example bows and arrows. Fit two was in regards to the lack of staff. Fit three was the `Jack' fit. It was the only time she would complain about seeing the same exact member of the facility more than twice a week.

 

“Why, exactly, can you not stay out of fire?” the lioness of the medical ward roared. Black Op agent shrunk back like a frightened kitty.

 

“Sorry?” he squeaked. The Vampire Queen had her back turned to him, messing around with a loaded syringe.

 

Dr. Janet Fraiser turned on him, growling, “If you really are sorry, Colonel,” she paused, allowing him to wince as the needle slid home, “get General Hammond to get me an assistant nurse who knows what they're doing, and won't loose their head in nine out of ten situations!”

 

Ah. So the root of her problem was SG-1 had run out yet another possible assistant for Janet.

 

“We've been looking at every possible assistant out there, Janet,” Sam's soothing voice echoed, a beam of hope drawing anger off the now pinned Colonel and onto something else. “There's only one you in the whole Air Force.”

 

“How about civilian sources?” Janet snapped back, slamming a desk drawer closed just to vent frustration.

 

“You're not serious.” Jack gulped in air, shutting his mouth before he could insert his foot.

 

“Oh, yes sir, I am dead serious. If I don't get some competent help in here, I'm the one who's going to need a padded cell.”

 

And with that, the tsunami blew over out into the waiting room. “Next!”

 

Jack was very glad he was not next. A mad Janet was bad enough. A furious Janet, overworked and running on two hours of sleep, was not a pretty picture. He pitied the poor sap from SG-6 who was coming in next.

 

*

 

2 Weeks Later

 

“One order of slap-jacks, hold the pig!”

 

Blond hair cascaded behind well-tones shoulders, the owner of said hair ignoring the constant ringing of the head chief. Blue eyes closed in exhaustion, turning back to glare at the chief assistant with odd spiky orange hair.

 

“You're just getting a kick out of this, aren't you?” he growled. The orange-haired boy smiled innocently.

 

“Hey, it'll be your turn next time.”

 

The long haired blond just growled. He straightened his typical restraint work clothing, taking the plate of food with more force than was necessary. With a grace normally reserved for taking people apart, he turned, heading towards the bustle of the diner. He passed his short, brown-haired, green-eyed companion on his way towards his waiting customer.

 

“X,” he growled.

 

“I know, Zero.” X sighed, punching another order into the register. “If it helps, I'm starting to want to kill him, too.”

 

Zero smiled slightly to himself. “Here's your flap-jacks, pall. Anything else I can get yah?”

 

The large bald man smiled up at him, his slight girth adding to his gentle warmth. He was wearing a black jacket over his blue Air Force uniform and, from the looks of it, seemed to be wearing a General's rank.

 

“Just some syrup, son.” He smiled. Zero nodded, walking back towards the bane of his existence; more commonly known as Axl's kitchen.

 

“Yo, spike-pit for brains!” Zero sang back into the kitchen.

 

“You summoned, oh blond lord of lack-luster fashion?” Axl shot back, his face appearing in the pickup window.

 

“We have any maple syrup back there?” Zero demanded.

 

“What? Did you run out of gel?”

 

“What, are you mad, boy! Me? Use gel on my hair?!” He grabbed the offered amber-colored semi-liquid in one fast swipe. “Unlike you, child, I know how to handle my hair, and gel is a definite no-no.”

 

“Hey! What's that supposed to mean?” Axl shouted after him.

 

X sighed from his spot at the cash register. The last two weeks had been a blur, moving from job to job, always moving farther and farther away from their landing zone. He realized it would make it harder for them to be tracked, but it was a necessary evil. They had to get some form of cash. The Class-S Hunters' wanderings had finally landed them near the base of NORAD and, for the moment, a stable source of income.

 

Zero had come up with their identification. He hadn't really said how he'd gotten them legal IDs, or social security numbers, or checking accounts, or any of the like. Nor had the Bloody Hunter said what, exactly, he had put into their backgrounds. Whatever it had been, it was good enough to get them several odd-end jobs here, there, and now in Colorado. He did recall, however, something about Axl's high school record involving a lot of prank-earned detentions...

 

The more X thought about it, the less he really wanted to know.

 

Trouble came walking in. The Blue Bomber eyed their new patrons carefully.

 

Shiny bald head; beady brown, almost black eyes; tight, poorly fitting, bad-all-around black leather; more than one of the same kind of person... Yep. Somebody had recently loosed a pack of organic Sigma clones. And, from the looks of it, they were not happy.

 

Just to prove his point, the leader pulled a six-shot revolver. X looked down at it, barely even blinked, before looking back up at the leader of the biker pack. The larger man smirked, echoing the clicks of at least twenty more guns, all of different calibers, locking in on X's brown haired head.

 

“Cash,” he growled. X was very glad he could turn off his olfactory sensors whenever he wished, because the man's breath was...well... nasty beyond words.

 

“There's an ATM around the corner,” X answered. He caught Axl slipping out of the kitchen, taking up a position between the bikers and the remainder of the innocent patrons. Zero was still bustling around, keeping them from panicking by filing their orders in record time.

 

“Sorry, but we lost our ATM cards.” The first biker snickered.

 

“Then I highly suggest you contact your bank.” X placed the restaurant's cordless phone on the counter. “Here's a phone, in case you've lost yours.”

 

The trigger clicked back, locking the hammer in place. “You're gonna be our bank. All the money in the register, now!”

 

And before anyone had a chance to blink, X had hopped the counter, disarmed the first of many organic Sigma wannabes, leaving Axl and Zero to quickly disarm the remainder and shove the whole group outside. Once outside, the leader had grabbed a spare gun from his black motorcycle and was in the midst of taking aim. X moved fast, disarming him again by flipping him over the side of his bike. Once stomach down, the Blue Bomber proceeded to give the man something his mother had apparently forgotten to give him when he was younger.

 

General George Hammond stared, wide eyed, as the man whom he was about to write off as another lost cause for an assistant to Janet began to give the gun wielding intruder a spanking. He slowly put his coffee down, flagging his blond waiter.

 

“Check please.”

 

“Be a minute!” the blond waiter snapped back. Hammond leaned out of the booth he was in slightly, looking at why his waiter, who had seemed like such an even-tempered man, was suddenly yelling at him.

 

Low and behold, he was helping the young orange-haired chief tie down the remaining six or seven members of the intrusive biker gang. All of whom were several times larger than the two boys put together.

 

The blond haired man stood up, patting his hands together so as to get the dust off. He turned back to face Hammond, his eyes twinkling slightly in hidden pride.

 

“Go ahead, Z. X should be about done with the first loser. He can help me carry the trash down to the station.” The spiky orange haired boy smiled, his green eyes also lit with the sparkle of victory.

 

“Z” walked over to Hammond, withdrawing his notepad and pen. “Sorry about that, sir. How can I help you?”

 

Hammond played with his coffee cup for a moment, looking up at his young waiter slyly. “How would you and your two associates be interested in an extreme job advancement?”