Notes: This is a very short, semi-disturbing, look at how one of our heroes might cope--this could work as being any of SG-1, except perhaps Teal'c, but those who have read my stories before probably have an idea who I had in mind.
I stand at the bottom of the ramp as another wreath in the midst of so many is placed gently into the event horizon--hesitating for a moment, suspended in the glow, before disappearing to the other side. Another funeral at the SGC. Just a regular Tuesday.
My team is right beside me, just as motionless as everyone else. We can't do anything but watch. Watch as the latest casualty is mourned. Teary-eyed friends stand beside the podium we've hauled up the ramp so many times--and so infrequently for celebration.
Still, we don't move. Like statues--like observers that have no part in any of this at all, we only watch. A flag is passed to the hands of the best friend, and the General prepares to speak. His speeches are subtlety different every time, but with all the death, I've often wondered if he's running out of things to say.
The gate shuts down and the wormhole swirls into thin mist and then is gone. Everyone around us comes suddenly to life, but still we stay standing. I wonder sometimes how we came to be this numb. I wonder when I stopped throwing things to watch them shatter against a wall every time someone died. I almost can't remember those times, when I used to become so distraught. Eventually I reached the point where I couldn't take it anymore.
And now I just watch and don't feel.