THEN

Reaper realized that he was somewhat skirting not only his orders for the Rockies Hell-week but also the spirit of the thing. Hell week was, after all, supposed to teach you to survive in a hostile environment without help on local resources. And a complete, if mothballed, underground compound, too large to be a bunker really, filled with goodies was only by a really, really big stretch, local resources. But given the current state of affairs in the corps, he wasn't to fussed about that.

And given the fact that his tracker had fallen off hours earlier during a river crossing, indestructible his finely shaped arse, and that the security computer records had shown no activities since the late 20'ties, he felt it was fairly safe to say that no-one but him would ever know. And it wasn't as if he had actively gone looking for the thing after all. He had only looked for some temporary shelter in an old mine-shaft when he literally fell over the manhole cover leading down to the real entrance. All though why Torchwood had placed a bunker on the arse end of civilization was probably beyond his pay grade.

And really, if they didn't want visitors, they should have ensured that it took a little more than bypassing the DNA-scanner by hooking up the DNA-scanner from his now-defunct hand weapon to the door. Really. They might as well have put out a welcome mat.

The bunker itself was fairly large and apparently kept up to date via drone deliveries through several remote entrances and delivery systems. There was several crates of computer equipment ranging over old and obsolete to the newest quantum, half-AI systems from Samsung, but the active ones were from the 20'ties which meant that either there had been no actual people here for a while or there was a maintenance issue. The massive food-storage pointed towards the former. Some of the food stunk to high heaven and was way beyond expiration. The violent stench alone would have caused frequent visitors to do something about it.

Reaper dug into the relatively fresh stuff, cans less than a month old, with gusto, humming happily as he warmed and ate his first real meal in 3 days in the computer central since that was the only place that didn't stink to high heaven. It was canned, like all of the foodstuffs that weren't dried, but it was FOOD and most importantly: HOT. Thinking about the massive piles of food, he wondered about the stockpiling, but a quick wander through the computer-systems told him that the automatic systems had a small malfuntion that for some reason had never been corrected.

There were two main-levels of drones connected to the automatic maintenance system: Delivery drones, which were tasked to get the new supplies and Cleaning drones, which among other things were supposed to keep an eye on outdated food etc. and chunk it in the garbage system unless told otherwise. And that's where the wheel fell off the cart. An error in the programming had prevented the clean-up drones from activating, thus explaining the massive buildup of rotting food and the obsolete computers. Another apparent small error was that there was no central reporting to the main Torchwood base about the amount of food consumed or general security data.

Reapers eyes narrowed while chewing on his meatballs and spaghetti, absentmindedly starting the most effective ventilation cycle he could find. The non-reporting thing was actually either really stupid or really smart. Stupid, because the main base wouldn't know who accessed the base, but smart if you needed a bolthole in a wartime situation where the main systems, and bases, could be compromised by enemy agents. But as a small idea slowly started to percolate in him at the back of his mind along with the Kona on the every-geek-is-a-coffee-addict-and-thus-a-coffeemaker-needs-to-be-within-reach setup in the corner, he realized it could work in his favor both short term and long term.

Fixing the error in coding in regards to the practical side of housekeeping took less than 5 minutes and then there was a whirl of activity as maintenance drones started clearing out the original food-storage rooms including, he was happy to note, a vigorous wash down. It would take days before the situation was cleared up, but still. It spoke to his inner neat-freak, not to mention his nose, that it was being done. A small group of drones with spindly looking arms started sorting out the electronics and the explanation behind a large empty space in the computer bay were made clear as the drones started to assemble the newest batch of computers, setting them up, switching them on and transferring the security protocols from the old setup to the new setup before disconnecting and packaging the old ones. The empty space left behind made for a easy changeover of equipment. A secondary set of the new computers where spirited away to one of the lower levels, probably to a backup location.

Nursing his excellent coffee while checking out the new setup, Reaper smirked as he realized his DNA profile was automatically added to the security setup from the doorway bypass he had made. That was one glaring security flaw right there. He would have no problems getting in if he wanted to at a later date. Checking out the goods- and to do- manifests on the system, he added the updating of the door-security to the drone schedule and added a set of more secure blueprints for the setup to the how-to-data-bank they accessed. He prioritized the exits over the inner doors to ensure that the welcome mat was effectively removed. Reaper figured that Torchwood was less likely to throw a fit in case they found out his little break-in if he fixed the issue that allowed it in the first place. he didn't remove his DNA-profile though. THAT they could do themselves.

A prompt asked what to do about the outdated tech. He ordered it into storage. On the internal security cams, he watched as two of the bigger cleaning drones separated from the cleaning force and started transported the not-in-use stuff further into the bunker, supposedly to be stored.

Checking the new systems over, Reaper realized that the system still didn't report back to the main computer hub. In fact, the only time it seemed to do so was if someone in the bunker sent changes in supply orders. Otherwise, it seemed that Torchwood had forgotten this place existed. They kept it supplied, but that was it and that process seemed to be 100% automated. Overall the bunker was supplied for a 20 man fighting force with dependents, totaling a calculated 80 people, and even had a badly maintained hydroponics garden ready for seeding somewhere in the deeper levels. Reaper was happy to note that Hydroponics were next after the foodstuffs on the current 911 maintenance list and on top of the daily one. The new half-ai system was still sorting things out, but it seemed to have the right priorities, so he didn't interfere.

The bunker was, on an overall level, geared to be a self-sustaining unit with enough resources to remain a completely closed system for at least 5 years at full manpower. He figured it was in case of some sort of massive Bio-Chem-Nuke warfare situation. It even had a complete digital cultural ark on 5-d glass-chips, Updated every 6 months, as well as a seed-bank and a bio-bank of most domesticated animals with what he suspected was an artificial womb setup, even if it was the first time he saw one, and massive amounts of manual farming equipment. Apparently Torchwood expected modern civilization to end sometime in the near future.

All of it was powered by a miniature hydrogen reactor which could theoretically remain on-line for the next several thousand years. Hm. That must have cost a pretty penny in its day, but all-in-all it looked like a very secure and reliable system. The fuel-feed system got the H3 pills from water in a small underground reservoir, which was treated in a complicated mess of a procedure he didn't even want to think about for the fear of a headache and which cost about half the energy output. All he needed to know was that it was safe AKA not going to blow up in his face anytime soon (it wasn't), that it had a back up (it did) and that it was working (it was).

Checking a couple of other things, he realized that he could use the setup to access the outside data-grids as well and that he had direct access to the governmental computers, including the ones involved in emigration, births and deaths. Apparently those protocols were also automatically updated. And still without any kind of reporting back to Mother Torchwood he could find.

All-in-all it dovetailed into his new, shiny plans very well.

He only graduated to full special ops status with the Rapid Response Tactical Squads 2 years ago, but there was already things in his orders that he wasn't completely happy about. Special ops, no matter which branch, had always had a certain standard about it, even during the Resource Wars where most other branches of the armed forces seemed to descent into barbarism, but there seemed to have been a recent influx of ass-hats in the brass. Some of the orders had skirted really, really close to legality, even if they had never completely crossed the line. It wasn't black ops after all. That shit was CIA only. But people who asked questions these things had a disturbing way of getting sent into situations they had very limited chances of surviving.

Faulty intel was often used as an excuse for getting shot in the back or blown-up by tangos. It was always the same commanders that ran these missions, but where that kind of record would normally lead to investigations after the second botched mission, and possible court-marshal or a transfer out of the command center, these particular commanders got off with the proverbial slap on the wrist time after time. Personally he suspected someone high up was in the pocket of one of the major companies, probably the United Aeronatics Corporation. That was the only explanation for pulling that kind of shit and the shifty orders always concerned one of their areas of interest or a place they had a major operation going on.

The rumour-mill had already dubbed the missions run by these commanders the "Graveyard Patrols", GP in shorthand, and it was not an uncommon sight to see soldiers assigned to the GPs turning in updated last wills and letters for their families to either the legal eagles or friends in other units before a mission. Granted, it WAS Special Ops and people could get killed on missions every time they went out, but this was something else. And his fellow marines knew it. Hence handing in updated will etc. when a GP went down and you were on it. This handing over was often done in full battle-gear as assignments to these mission were more often than a last minute thing.

An assignment the Graveyard Patrols were generally considered a death-sentence.

Reaper knew that this situation would blow up in the brass's face sooner or later, but until then, he needed a plan to make sure he survived. He wasn't a quitter and he had a duty to protect the American people as long as he could. Even if it meant working with ass-hats. But he needed an exit-strategy. And that is where this place came into the equation.

On an overall level, he would keep his mouth shut and his head down unless it affected one of the few people he would consider his friends.

In other words Destroyer, Duke, Mac, Sarge even if he was a bit on the command-is-always-right-side and his currently estranged sister. Goat was also a possibility, even if he raised a couple of alarm bells in Reapers mind. The man was simply to much of a religious nutcase. He didn't preach or anything, but Reaper had seen the marks on Goats arms. There was something wrong with that man, but that didn't mean he wanted him on a GP run. And as for Portman. That was just a no. The only redeeming quality in that idiot was his work as a sniper as far as Reaper was concerned. He could work with the man, but a friend? Not a chance in Hell. The others he could trust to keep their mouths shut to a certain degree, but the only one he would tell about this place from the outset was his sister. If he could get in touch with her that was. The rest of his trusted ones could be told if the situation warranted it. He smirked. Otherwise Duke would most likely use this place as a bachelor pad.

If need be, he could make a run for it and stay here along with his selected few, even go as far as putting the place on lock down. Granted 5 to 10 years looking at concrete walls was going to be boring as hell, but it was better than dying because your commander was a corrupt asshole out to kill you.

Once here, he would be able to use the computer systems to create new identities for everyone and burn the old ones. That way, they would be able to, after a while anyhow, move fairly securely in society.

Starting to clean up after himself, he bemusedly sidestepped one of the smaller non-loading-dock drones as it took care of several decades worth of grime on the floors and walls of the corridor. If he didn't know better, he would say that the small, barrel-shaped thing looked absolutely frazzled as one arm used a vacuum implement to suck up dust and dirt while another had a scrubbing implement washing down the walls as it puttered around on its small wheels. He sniffed the air. At least, the smell was clearing up.

He would grab a couple of hours of shuteye in one of the bunks, check on the progress of everything and then move on towards the goal zone of the training exercise, but first a quick shower would not be adverse. He briefly entertained the idea of skipping the shower to avoid anyone getting suspicious, but he was dirty and there was enough ground to cover for him to build up a new layer of grit before getting from here to the goal-zone. Noone would notice.

About 8 hours later, Reaper left the base he was now mentally calling the Nest through the same entry point he had used going in, more relaxed than he had been in a long time. Having an escape plan from a potentially bad situation can do that to people. Disengaging the DNA-lock from his hand gun, he reassembled the original lock and allowed the little repair drone to start the upgrade on the door. The drone had a problem with the mess of wires he had created and was apparently stuck on which wire to cut to update the system. He could have sworn it bleeped happily at him as he undid his work. He would have to dump the handgun somewhere and would most likely catch hell over the loss from the Quartermaster, but he couldn't risk anyone getting suspicious over the state of the thing.

Whistling slightly, he camouflaged the manhole cover better than it had been before and exited the mine-shaft. He had an exercise to complete after all.

NOW

Bones smirked as he watched the security screens. Sometime in between his first and second visit, the security of the Nest had gotten an upgrade with a shipment of external, very easily camouflaged self-affixing cameras as well as a couple of remote camera drones no bigger than a hummingbird. Adding them to the system had been ridiculous easy by simply seeking out the places he wanted them, giving the Half-AI the locations and then allowing it to connect to them. The small cameras had shown a remarkable resilience by lasting several years in some of the most hostile conditions he'd seen outside the desert, but they had also been regularly upgraded and now that the computer knew where to put them, he didn't even have to be there.

The security upgrade had been a godsend after his and Sam's return from Mars and the Rise of the Augments. The additional security had helped in keeping an eye on the surroundings as more and more people escaped into the mountains when the war grew in intensity and the population centers became targets. At its very worst, they had locked down the facility completely and used the undisturbed time in the Med-bay to establish his new, C24 enhanced baseline. Sam had also blunt-forced him into studying the medical text on the glass-chips the only way a 2-minute older sister could. It kept both of them occupied for most of those 3 years. Fortunately no-one had gotten close to the entrances, even if they had decided to rig the mine-shafts etc. with large amounts of explosives, just in case they had to blow a couple of curious assholes up. Sam had developed a rather fascinating if somewhat disturbing interest in explosives by the time they were done with THAT.

The reason he was smirking, however, were the image of a very put out looking James T. Kirk looking exasperated by the empty backpack currently hanging from a low branch on a tree. He also looked highly edible in his worn off-duty jeans, equally worn, formfitting t-shirt, leather jacket and severely battered sneakers. The dirt smudge on his left cheek and general disheveled state did nothing to dampen mini-Bones' interest in the proceedings. And in the back of his mind, the small part that was named "Reaper" was purring appreciatively as well.

Bones had located the transmitter fairly easy, he WAS former spec. Ops and justifiably more paranoid than a live pig at a Klingon wedding ceremony, but he had decided to lead the brat here and then see what he would do. Part of him, his inner Reaper more specifically, wanted the Brat to prove himself worthy of being his mate and this would be such a way. It would also show him how comfortable Jim felt in his new skin and thus how much he had accepted this new part of himself.

Granted, there was still that entire "Mate" thing to discuss, but since discovering the issue with mini-Bones after that first, fatal shuttle ride, he had the time, AKA 4, almost 5 long excruciatingly celibate years, to think about things, and his almost homicidal reaction to imagining the Brat mating with someone else, now that Jim had C24, had cleared up the last of his questions tout-suite. There was a dent in the concrete wall in the Med-bay of the Nest as a permanent reminder of his reaction.

Jim was HIS. And that was the end of it. That wasn't to say that he couldn't live without the idiot if Jim was going to choose otherwise, but given Jim's reactions around Bones, Bones would have to make a pretty big mistake to loose him and quite frankly, if he made a mistake that size, he would be too stupid to live. If you asked Reaper, that is.

The backpack was located a couple of hours worth of semi-rough hiking away from one of the entrances to the Nest, more specifically the one he had used getting here originally, but it was up to Jim to find it. Depending on how at ease the brat was with his new senses, it would either go very well or very bad. And if it went bad, well, then Bones would simply have to save the idiot from himself, wouldn't he?

The smirk grew as he watched Jim reading the note from inside the backpack, carefully written to avoid anyone BUT Jim understanding it. Jim's eyes narrowed, then he more or less buried his head in the back of the backpack to take what looked like one hell of a sniff. Eyes closed, the brat then seemed to sniff the wind, sort of speak, before taking off in the right direction.

"That's my brat." Somewhere in the primal part of his mind, Reaper roared with pride. His boy was smart! Bones, on the other hand, decided to be more practical about things and set about preparing the Nest for the arrival of his soon-to-be mate. First he added Jim's DNA to the lock system and had the Half AI, nicknamed Sissy, keep track of Jim and alert Bones in case of an emergency, then he rose to enter deeper into the complex. If Jim was true to form, he would push himself and Bones would only have about 2 hours to get the last details ready.

Bones paused briefly at what he called his Memorial Wall. Photos of people he had gotten to know over his long existence and the massive family tree painted on the concrete detailing Sams family during the centuries. At the center of the photos were a picture of him and Sam next to a group photo of his team before the cluster fuck that was Olduvai and his new team on the Enterprise.

"Hi Sam. I remember my promise, you know. I'm not turning into a "Brooding asshole of a hermit out here in the Rockies". In fact, I'm about ensure that however long this C24 thing keeps me alive is going to be a shit-load of a lot more exciting that you would have expected. You would have liked him, my Jim. Doesn't take shit from anyone, smart as hell as well. But I do believe you would have preferred him to be from OUTSIDE the family tree." Bones smirked. "At least we are far enough apart that no-one would comment on it even if they knew about the entire immortal thing. Your side of the family was a randy lot after you died. Seriously, the amount of teen-age pregnancies was embarrassing. It started with that first Samuel, you know. So I blame the Kirk's. But I guess the Brat had to get it from somewhere. And rather your side than mine." He shuddered at the thought. "He's a good kid, though. Heart at the right place. Absolutely no fucking respect for authority when he feels like it." Bones took a breath. " And, by the way, I expect you to keep your peepers elsewhere for the next couple of days. The thought of my sister watching THAT is the ultimate Cock-block, so go to sleep for a while, yes? With earplugs just in case." He glared at the group shot of his Marine family. "That goes double for you assholes. And one of you better restrain Portman just in case. Trussed up in chains with a gag, blindfold and earplugs in a sub-zero fridge comes to mind."

After spending a couple of minutes in silent contemplation about the people he had loved and lost since Mars, he turned on his heel and headed down towards storage.

He wondered what Jim would think of strawberry flavored lube.

a/n

Ok...that didn't quite go as I expected. Less of the naked than I expected. -