Down on the Farm

Disclaimer: I don't own Transformers. They belong to Hasbro and Takara. Nor do I own Stargate SG-1. It belongs to MGM.

"Jingle Bells" played on the radio, the driver of the custom-painted 1967 Mustang fastback whistling along as he turned off the highway down a dirt road. The sky was overcast, the weather cold and threatening snow. The car's passengers were lost to their own thoughts as the vehicle came to a stop near a farmhouse decked out for Christmas. The place was lit up like a landing strip.

Lt. Col. Cameron Mitchell turned off the ignition, got out of the car. His companions followed, watched as he let himself into the house. Neither of the humans seemed surprised when the car talked.

"Toto, I don't think we're in Kansas anymore," it said.

Dec. 21

Dr. Daniel Jackson considered his present situation. Stuck in the cramped back seat of a classic car that wasn't a car, flying down the interstate at a less than legal speed, the driver talking animatedly, driving with one knee because he had a soda in one hand an a donut in the other. Hands not on the wheel was a problem for only one reason-Mitchell wasn't keeping up the pretense of driving.

At the time, it seemed like a good idea, going home with Mitchell to Kansas to spend Christmas. Once he'd found out the archaeologist hadn't any plans for Christmas, the pilot invited him to come along. Daniel wasn't the only victim. Along for the ride was NEST's new second in command, SAS Capt. Ian Graham, who was letting Mitchell rant.

". . .c'mon, who's gonna believe that they picked Oklahoma over Kansas for a bowl game? The Sooners? They beat Nebraska, and they barely had a winning record, so how does that score them a bowl invite? National championships aside, I think they felt sorry for them. Seriously. . ."

Daniel sighed.

Mitchell's rant stopped. He looked in the rear view mirror, meeting Jackson's gaze, eyebrow raised questioningly.

"Everything all right, Jackson?" Mitchell asked.

"Fine," Daniel said.

"I know, you're not a football fan. Want me to switch to basketball?" Mitchell asked.

"No," Daniel said.

"Then why don't you dazzle us with the latest archaeological news?" Mitchell said.

Daniel frowned, started to reply with a retort but he was saved.

"How big is your family's farm?" Graham asked.

"Two hundred and twenty-seven acres," Mitchell said. "My uncle farms about half of it and the other half is divided into cattle leases and conservation land. Except this year my mom had the brilliant idea to have a corn maze and pumpkin patch. . ."

He trailed off. Didn't want to mention the part where he went home for a few days in October to help out and ended up getting lost in the maze for hours the first night he was back. Unfortunately, their fourth companion on the road trip from hell spoke up.

"You particularly enjoyed the corn maze, didn't you?"

The disembodied voice of Hot Rod, Mitchell's Autobot guardian, didn't freak them out.

Mitchell popped the dash with a fist.

"I told you not to say anything about *that*," he hissed. "I'll let my brother drive you when we get to the farm. Do I need to remind you what happened the last time I let him drive my car?"

Hot Rod shut up.