by ALC Punk!
Ballpoint describing the arc. Her hand is trembling just a little, but Janet is pretty sure that's allowed. The 'C' is hardest, because it's the beginning.
"I want SG-1 back out there, ASAP, colonel." Hammond's tone is implacable, even if his eyes betray his sadness.
"I'm sorry, Jack, but you're the front-line team, and we need you out there, not here."
"They want us to take a new member already? But, Jack--"
He shakes his head, exhaustion coloring his face grey. "I know, Daniel."
Hands waving, the archeologist tries to make his friend understand. "Jack, we can't just--"
And that's the end of it.
Time of death: 1132 hours.
Janet can't think about the seconds, because that would be too much detail for her mind to process. She's filling out the information on automatic. She knows what's supposed to go where, and what i to dot and which t to cross.
And none of that helps.
It's Warner, looking concerned. "Would you like me to handle that?"
"No. I... I should do it. Thank you."
"They were scared of us, sir." It's the fourth time he's given his report, and he's weary of it, his tone dull. "Carter smiled at 'em, and said something and all hell broke loose."
And she'd turned to say something to him and the blood spray had hit all three of the male members of SG-1.
"Any recommendations, colonel?"
Nuke the place. "I don't think they'll be open to trade negotiations, sir."
"Your suggestion is noted."
He believes that like he believes in life after death.
"I know you don't want to hear it, Jack. But she could come back. We know it happens, we--"
Daniel thinks the after-image of Jack turning towards him will stick in his mind far more than the hands on his throat, or the concrete wall at his back. "She wouldn't have had time, Daniel."
"Thank you for coming, Dr. Crane."
A smile tips the young man's lips. "Considering what I've heard about the Stargate Program, General, I consider it an honor to be here."
The balding man smiles back, "I'm not sure how much you've read of the dossiers we sent you, so I'll just brief you. You're assigned to join Colonel O'Neill's team for the next few months. You're studying them to discover the long-term psychological effects of gate travel on our people."
"Dr. MacKenzie recommended me to this position, sir."
"Yes." Some of the man's geniality drifts away. "In light of recent events, I'm not entirely pleased with your presence, but the president has requested that this study be carried out."
"I understand, sir, the delicate nature of the current time. But this is exactly the sort of stress it's my job to study."
Hammond's lips flatten, and his eyes nail Crane. "You just see you keep your nose where it belongs, Dr. Crane."
He's just a post-grad student, Janet thinks. But there's something about him. Something that makes the skin on her back crawl, the hair on the back of her neck stand on end. He produces a visceral, instinctive reaction that worries her.
And when Sam Carter sits up in the middle of her autopsy and says, "Janet." it's far too late to do anything about it.
"First Sam. Now Janet," Daniel says, sitting on the floor in Teal'c's cell.
Jack grunts and flops on T's bed. Briefly, he wonders when the jaffa will return from his interview with Crane. But it's too much effort. "Doc's just stressed."
"Well, gosh, Jack, that just makes her getting locked up for her own safety so much better."
"Sarcasm's really getting to be your thing, Daniel."
"I don't understand this." Hammond's twang is more pronounced, and he sounds exhausted. "First Dr. Fraiser, now Colonel O'Neill."
Crane's fingers are steepled. "I believe the death of Major Carter triggered an underlying emotional defect in them both. Dr. Jackson and Teal'c may follow as well."
"My people don't break, Crane."
"They have broken, sir."
Hammond scowls. "Fix them."
Agent Barrett stares at the dossier spilled across his desk. The source was unknown, but the facts are there in technicolor. His hand is shaking as he picks up the phone. "Get me the president."
"Twenty people dead."
Alfred's hand closes on his shoulder. "You did your best, once you discovered the situation, sir."
He shrugs the hand off, angry. "That's not the point."
"Then what is the point, sir?"
Bruce reaches out and touches the death certificate, his fingers trace the name there. 'Carter, Samantha' "I don't know. Is there ever a point, old friend?"
"Sometimes. But first, why don't I make you a cup of tea?"