"You lose count, after awhile," he told you, that night you had been drunk enough to ask.
You didn't leave it there, either, because you have a habit of taking things one step too far and it's not something you can break. "That makes it better?"
"No," he had said, distantly, "it doesn't make it better."
You think for a moment that you've lost count already, but decide Wraith don't count. You only made the bombs, anyway.
You remember sitting there terrified, and you can't forget the feel of the knife blade slipping beneath your skin. You thought they were Neanderthals but don't hesitate now to do a lot more damage than they ever did to you. It's different, you tell yourself, because they're not tied to a chair and it's them or you.
Given the choice, you've always chosen yourself.
You've always looked at guns in a distant kind of way, anyway, and you've never really seen them as a problem. Guns don't kill people, after all, you do.
You're tempted to tell yourself the Genii don't count, either, but their blood's red just like yours, and you're much too logical to deny it. You wonder if you should get a couple of tattoos, or something, like those psychos you hear about back on Earth. One slash for one kill, two after the next. You'd have three now, if you don't count the Wraith, and you don't.
"Are you okay?" you ask, and you're breathless, but at least you're still breathing.
He doesn't answer you, but you hear him push himself up to his knees, and when you glance in his direction you seen him wipe blood off his lip with the back of his hand. He's nodding, but you're not naïve enough to take it for actual assent. "They're dead," you tell him.
"I can see that." His tone is level, distant, the same way it had been when he told you that you'll lose count. He doesn't say anything else.
You're still aiming the gun, straight ahead at where the last one you had shot had been standing. Your hands are so frozen you wonder if you'll ever be able to pry your fingers loose, but you know you have to, that you have to start moving before more people come and you're forced to count them too.
You realize a little belatedly that you're covered in blood, and it's not yours, not even his, but theirs, and you count them again, just to be sure, because there's so much blood, and you wonder how there's still only three of them. One of them is pretty, blonde, looks a bit like Sam Carter, actually, except for the eyes—her eyes are glassed over and not blue. Still, she's your type. Except that she's dead.
He stumbles to his feet and then falls beside you, holding his ribs. They did a lot of damage before you could finally pull the trigger, and you feel more guilty about that than for what you've done. He whispers your name and tells you that you've got to get up, but you feel kind of stuck, like something's pushing you down, or holding you still, and you can barely hear him anymore anyway.
The blood on your clothes is drying, at least, but it's making your shirt stick to your skin like super glue or something, and your hands keep shaking even after you hand him the gun. You think you're going to throw up but you don't, you just close your eyes and rewind yourself back in time to a place you feel safe. You open your eyes when he touches your shoulder, and you're back—still kneeling on the ground, and the blood's still drying, but it's okay, really, because you'll lose count after awhile.