Disclaimer: Stargate SG-1 is not mine. It belongs to other people. I made no dinero con ese.

Rating: Teen. Rated Teen for graphic images.

Category: Tragedy

Summary: The Angel of Death, whose wings are black and stained with blood, has no favorites, nor spares a soul.

Timeframe: Honestly, this could be any time. Possibly even AU. I honestly don't know. No spoilers of any kind, if you're worried.

A/N: This little thing came to me in the midst of colorguard practice today. It is possible that this will, at one point in time (a very long time away) become part of a longer fic. But I honestly am not sure what to make of it. You're going to have to decide for yourself what it really means.


Jagged Heart


A red stain crept across the cafeteria floor, marring the tiles with a satanic streak. The scent of violence filled the still air, coating it with a thick repulsiveness, almost as if it was a signal beacon to the Angel of Death. Rain fell outside of the building, striking the picnic tables of the abandoned lunchroom courtyard, bringing the growing things life. The swirling clouds high above condensed, forming a thick blanket of sorrow with which to trap the pain and anguish.

The woman lying on the cold floor beside the wall was trembling slightly. She lay on her stomach, her head twisted toward the wall, one arm flipped palm up by her hip, her other hand resting at eye level.

Her fingertips traced a pattern endlessly in the seeping liquid, cutting through the blood and baring the white linoleum of the floor. Her eyes flickered back and forth, almost as if she were searching for something or someone, her breathing coming in ragged gasps as she struggled to draw breath.

A sigh escaped her lips, and she suddenly fell still, her hand going limp and trailing through the bloody pattern, bisecting it jaggedly in half. Her gaze slid out of focus, and her eyelids fluttered shut. The bright red liquid that had been slowly creeping out from underneath her ceased its relentless encroachment, gleaming sickeningly as it began to dry instead.


The cafeteria door opened, and a large black man stepped through the double doors. His gaze immediately lit on the prone figure of the woman lying in the pool of blood, his nostrils flaring at the sickening, coppery scent that filled the air. With silent and controlled panic, he crossed the floor with long strides and knelt by her side, his boots disturbing the drying liquid with sickening squelches.

With gentle hands, he rolled the woman over and onto her back, lowering two large fingers to rest just below her sinking chin.

"Colonel O'Neill, Daniel Jackson, it is imperative that you come to the cafeteria immediately."

"Understood. We're on our way," O'Neill replied, his voice issuing from the radio Teal'c had just placed on the floor, just free of the sticky, nauseas puddle.

He looked down at the limp woman and gathered her into his arms, cradling her head in his elbow. His eyes gleamed with unshed tears, his jaw set in a stubborn lock.

He could merely sit there as he waited for the rest of the team to find their way to him, his eyes locked on the folded tables standing against the tan and garish maroon wall. He did not allow his gaze to settle on the three bullet holes that had been torn into her chest, nor the streaks of drying blood on her cheeks. Her shirt had been soaked through with the fluid, and it had cemented in between her fingers and under her nails, her pants stiffening as well. All of these things Teal'c could feel; he did not need another reminder of the atrocity that had been committed in this once innocent room.

Unbidden, his eyes drifted downward, and he fastened his gaze on a small pattern that had been etched in the pool of drying blood. He watched as blood slowly began to ooze and blur, then fill, the white shape of a heart torn jaggedly in two.