On-world Alphabet Soup
My thanks to the 23 authors who made On-world Alphabet Soup a reality: 11am Street, Eilidh, Elder Bonnie, Fig Newton, Gategremlyn, Greenbirds, Ivory Gates, Jb, Lord Spyridon, Madders Ahatter, Magickmoons, Magistrate, Nymaeria, Rad1986, Sallynm, Sid, Splash the Cat, Stringertheory, Tallulah Rasa, Thothmes, Traycer, Wonderland, and Wyomingnot. A warm welcome to our new cooks: Jb, Magickmoons, Nymaeria, Rad1986 and Wyomingnot. A grateful tip of the ladle to our regular contributors. And special thanks to Ivory Gates, Thothmes, and Rad1986, who pinch-hit and wrote multiple servings!
Enjoy over 46,000 words of on-world gen fic in 27 stories! Word counts range from less than 200 to over 9,000. Ratings range from G to PG-13, and expect spoilers for the entire series.
Since the full anthology is much too long for LJ's posting constraints, most of the stories below are excerpted, with the links to the full fic on the author's individual journal. Readers are strongly encouraged to follow the links to the authors' individual journals and leave feedback. You can also read the full, unabridged anthology on Dreamwidth.
A is for Alien
by sg_fignewton
Despite her dutiful refrain about being "from Toronto," Cassandra was genuinely worried that she was going to slip up and somehow reveal her alien status. Never mind the larger sizes of the three moons back on Hanka, or the different technological level that still had her gaping at things like electricity. There was so much she didn't know about on the cultural level - religious beliefs, common manners, children's games, fairy tales, even nursery rhymes! Surely someone would notice the way she tapped her right shoulder as a gesture to ward off bad luck, or her half-aborted curtsy to any bearded man as an automatic acknowledgment of his assumed authority. And what would happen then?
She remained tense and anxious about a potential disaster for months, cringing every time she thought she'd given herself away. But no one seemed to care, beyond an initial startled blink, if she'd never heard of Superman or didn't know that birds fly south for the winter. Her friends or teachers simply explained the reference and continued talking as if nothing had happened.
She quietly voiced her concerns to Janet, once, but her surrogate mother only smiled and hugged her.
"Don't worry about it, Cassandra," Janet told her. "You're forgetting that most people here on Earth have no idea that there's life out there. Why would they imagine that you're from off-world?"
Cassandra thought about Star Trek: Deep Space 9, Power Rangers in Space, and Dragon Ball Z.
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B is for Bibliotherapy
by sallymn
Soft, slightly flat door chimes. Weak, shifting sunlight filtering through time-dulled windows and making the dust motes seem to swirl. Soft rustle of pages, and that smell he hasn't come across for a year now... a mix of the dust, aging leather and old paper, stale coffee dregs in forgotten cups, and a general... mustiness, with a hint of dank sweetness.
He really hasn't missed all this. Not at all. He'll keep telling himself that.
And he's, well, kind of sure that his ex-ex-teammate hasn't either. After all, there really couldn't have been old bookshops in the higher realms.... or could there? He'll have to ask Daniel, when and if Daniel remembers anything about the higher realms he's spent the last year swanning about in, or about old bookshops, or about anything at all for that matter...
Which is why Jack O'Neill is standing in the doorway of Books and Crannies and breathing in that old bookstore smell that he hasn't missed. Because if anything is going to kickstart Doctor Jackson's missing memories into some sort of working order, his favorite places in the whole of Colorado ought to do it.
Such as Booktique, Colorado Springs.
The Book Barn, Greeley.
Buy the Book, Aurora.
Bibiophilia, Colorado Springs.
Bookwyrms, Denver.
Bookends, Denver.
The Bookman Cometh, Fort Collins
... and back home to Books and Crannies, here in good old Colorado Springs.
"I hope you're happy, Doctor Jackson," he mutters.
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C is for Coffee
by thothmes
Jack O'Neill woke, as he usually did, a few moments before his alarm sounded, and seeing that it would soon be making that really, really annoying buzzing sound, he turned it off. He took a moment to savor the absence of pain anywhere, knowing that as soon as he rolled over and began the process of getting up and getting going, his body would start to complain. Too many injuries, too many hard landings, too many years. He was home, though, and didn't need to protect his image. so he rolled over with a groan, and slowly, stiffly, pushed himself into a sitting position, and then gathered himself for a moment before standing, and walking as slowly and as shufflingly as the old man he felt like, he made his way to the bathroom, to shower, shave, and otherwise complete his morning routine. First thing, though, were a couple of ibuprofen. With the painkillers on board, a hot shower, a shave, and a few agonizing stretches, he would be able to present a picture of a field ready soldier, lithe, limber, and at the peak of physical condition. This was one of his bad days though, and he chose to take extra time in the shower over a chance to make coffee. He'd pick something up in the commissary when he got to the SGC. Even if it was bitter, black, and strong enough to eat its way from his stomach straight through to his heart, it was going to be better than the uselessly boneless instant stuff that was currently inhabiting his cabinets. He was looking forward to finishing the jar and buying something better soon. He had his eye on the espresso powder Daniel had pronounced to be the only mildly civilized alternative to "proper" - read chi-chi - coffee. He just didn't want to get it too soon, or Jackson might think that he was taking his advice and get all puffed up.
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C is for Caretaker
by rad1986
Wanted:
Part-time property caretaker.
Two days a week.
Light housework, paid travel.
$15 per hour.
Call 555-8222.
Her mother had given her the wanted ad; said it would do her some to finally get a job. Parents... what did they know anyway? Still, with college coming up and her wanting to move out anyway, Sharon really did need to start earning her more money and stepping away from the nest. Small steps; she'd still need help paying for that car she'd been drooling over.
She calls the number and is requested to come for an interview in a few days at the temp agency building. Sharon fumbles her way through a resume, showers, dons khaki pants and a button-up and arrives ten minutes early. The female interviewer is nice and asks generic questions about how Sharon does in school, what she likes to do, and if she can follow the twice-a-month cleaning schedule and other mundane questions. Sharon feels like the interview was a breeze and she expects that someone else on the interview's list will get the job. That's totally fine with her, she'll find something somewhere.
It comes as a surprise when three days later she receives a call saying she's hired. The next day her mother drops her off at the house in question - cute little thing only a few blocks from home - and is given a tour and a key. The job is close and super easy. She'd been helping her mother clean the house since she was nine; forced labor if you ask her. But still, vacuuming and basic dusting aren't that hard. And the pay is fantastic... $30 for two hours!
Sharon never bothers to care who the pretty blonde woman in the pictures is.
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D is for Detained
The Delicate Balance of Trust
by traycer_
"I'm bored."
Daniel looked up from the book he was trying to read and sighed. Keeping Jack down for longer than five minutes was a trial in itself.
"Yeah, well so am I," he said with just a trace of aggravation in his tone.
"Well at least you have something to read," Jack grumbled. "And Carter has her laptop, and even Teal'c has... well he can meditate." This last was said with a firm nod as if to prove his point. Daniel just stared at Jack in amusement.
"You could try reading something too," he said, knowing full well that reading was not what Jack wanted to do.
"Read?" The look on his face affirmed Daniel's suspicions. Jack definitely did not want to read. "No," he said as he began to pace around the room. "I need to be doing something else."
"We're being detained," Sam said from her desk. "We have to deal with what we have."
"Not enough," Jack announced with a flair. "We need to... I need to do something... constructive."
"Perhaps you should work on your mission report," Teal'c suggested. Daniel couldn't help but think that was the wrong answer in Jack's view, but he understood Teal'c's reasoning behind the suggestion.
"No," Jack said with a grimace, giving credence to Daniel's thoughts. "Not even close."
"Okay," Daniel said giving up on his book for the moment. "What do you have in mind?"
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E is for Empathy
by eilidh17
Vala Mal Doran considered herself to be an observant person. Perhaps a little perceptive. Astute even. Paying attention to details, even while appearing to be easily distracted, had proven to be very lucrative for her in the past, and none more so than today. She had taken her place at the back of the crowded lecture room on level 18, tablet in one hand, stylus in the other, looking for all the world like she genuinely wanted to be there. Which, of course, she didn't.
It was all very ho-hum for her. These lectures, presented mostly by Daniel as part of the indoctrination process for new 'recruits' to the SGC, seemed designed to lull students to sleep rather than educate them. She rolled her eyes at the stupidity of it all as she took her seat, surrounded by camouflage-clad marines who clearly regarded deodorant as an effective bio-weapon for the senses.
Today's lecture was Ancient 101, and was a step up from the First Contact class of several days before where, much to Daniel's chagrin, she had proudly raised her hand and volunteered to play the alien in the practical side of the lesson. The marines all cheered vigorously and formed a line. Daniel dipped his head to his chest and whispered something she was glad she couldn't hear.
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F is for Future
by 11am_street
“C’mon Harrison! Hurry up; we’re going to be late!” Lieutenant Allison Reynolds shouted to her friend, Lieutenant George Daniel Harrison.
“Alright alright, I’m coming!” the lieutenant shouted as he adjusted the insignias on his dress uniform. They had to be perfect, today was a special day. Today was the day that he and his fellow soldiers and hopefully eventual teammates, friends really, would be inducted as part of the Stargate Program.
“Oh Dani!” Allison shouted as she knocked on the door. “Yeah yeah,” replied Harrison as he gave himself once last look in the mirror. Not a single hair was out of place and his insignia were perfectly straight. He grabbed his hat and left the locker room.
“I’m here,” he said as he pushed opened the door and saw his best friend waiting for him along with Allison. “You know, it’s usually us girls that take a long time in the bathroom,” she laughed as she high fived Daniel’s friend, John Bender, also a new recruit to the program.
The three friends, who had been friends since their early days at the Air Force Academy, marched toward the elevators and pushed the button for Level 28. All three soldiers were overcome with pre ceremony jitters as they excitedly fidgeted in the elevator, smiling nervously at each other. The moment the car stopped and the doors opened, however, the soldier fa?ade was back in place as they marched steadily toward the Embarkation Room they paused briefly and smiled excitedly, their eyes shining with pride. As they entered through the doors, they were overwhelmed by the sight. It was not the first time they had been in the legendary “gate room”, but it was their first time to be in the presence of such notable members of the program. They fell into place with their fellow soldiers, all part of the new recruits to be sworn in as members of Stargate Command.
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G is for Godparent
by stringertheory
Over the years, Jack collected many accolades, each with its own worth and meaning. The official variety were the easiest to identify and understand. Every time the symbols on his shoulders changed, it indicated higher authority, broader responsibility, a heavier burden. The medals pinned to his jacket signified valor and daring feats; they commanded respect and admiration.
Less straightforward were the personal recognitions interwoven into military life. There were thousands of ways big and small that soldiers honored one another, unique to the individuals involved and the circumstances invoked. Jack had been given plane tickets, family heirlooms, specially prepared meals, hand-knit scarves, and one beloved vintage-era trading card. One of the men under his command - barely older than a boy, really - had even given Jack a small glass phial containing some of the shrapnel that had been recovered from his leg. Considering Jack had been the one to haul the man over his shoulder and cart him all the way to the field hospital, the offering had the mark of both a thank you and a trophy - “Here, remember what you did.”
His soldiers gave him trinkets, mementos, and memories. But it was always special when they gave him their children.
Being a godparent had different connotations for military personnel than it did for civilians. For all that it was a symbolic gesture to both, civilians had an understanding that, should the worst happen, they would be called upon to see to the child's well-being. Jack never entertained the same notions. When these men and women asked him to be a godparent to their child, he never expected that he would step into their boots should they not make it home. Neither did they. There were grandparents and aunts and uncles to fulfill that role. Hell, odds being what they were, it was highly likely that Jack would die before any of them, so surrogate parenthood was clearly not the intention.
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H is for Half-Life
by sg_wonderland
I was engrossed in SG-12’s mission report when a flash of movement caught my eye. Glancing up, I realized Daniel was lurking in my doorway. Suppressing the inevitable sigh, I invited him in. Since his return, he won’t enter anyone’s room or lab or office without express consent. The door would always be left wide open. I have yet to figure out if it’s a method of discouraging personal conversation or if it was Daniel’s way of insuring a speedy escape. Consequently, I feel the chasm between Daniel and SG-1 widening every day.
He was stiff and formal and so clearly uncomfortable that I want to hug him tight but I realized that would lead to more stiffness and formality. There is this beautiful shell where a friend used to be and I hate it. “Daniel, you know you don’t have to ask me every time you want to come in.”
“I…I didn’t used to do that?” He perched uneasily on the stool opposite me, keeping the wide lab table between us.
“Oh, Daniel, you used to burst in one anyone, anywhere, without thinking about it.” My smile fades. “I wish, just once, you’d come in here like your hair was on fire.”
He shifted uncomfortably. “We used to be pretty good friends, huh?”
“The very best.”
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I is for Insight
by gategremlyn
“Oh, my,” Daniel sputtered as he wiped the tears from his eyes. “Tell me you didn't.”
“I did,” Sam said. “To a general. And me just barely out of the academy. I thought for sure I was done.”
“What did he do?”
“He said,” and Sam put down her beer bottle so she could place both hands on her hips, “he said, 'Young lady, I may be wrong, but I'm a general. The only people who can tell me I'm wrong are my staff. And you aren't one of them... yet. So keep your opinions to yourself.'”
Daniel grabbed a tissue to wipe his eyes. “I can so see you as a wet-behind-the-ears lieutenant. Did you keep your opinions to yourself?”
“Well, let's say I kept them to a select group of people,” she admitted. “Okay, I've told you about a time I cried, now somebody else tell one.”
They were at the easy part of night when, lubricated with a few beers, the stories came. It was a time-honored tradition for SG-1, especially after a mission like the one they'd just had. Seeing Daniel as a Prior, knowing they'd started a war they weren't sure they could finish.... Well, it had been a rough few days.
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J is for Just a Bit Off Base
by thothmes
Sgt. Otis Jefferson was coming up on his thirtieth year in the Air Force, and was thinking of retiring. Like most enlisted men, he had gone where the service sent him, moving every few years, living on or near various bases at home or abroad, often as not uprooting his family to be with him, but occasionally enduring long separations when that was not safe or possible. For the last ten years he had been lucky enough to pull a relatively cushy spot at Cheyenne Mountain. Okay, so maybe it wasn’t as prestigious as landing guard detail at the White House, but that was a job for Marines in any case. His mama, God rest her soul, had been a wise woman and had warned him against going into the Marines, and from what he had seen of what the Corps expected of them, Mama had been right. She usually was.
Be that as it may, Otis had thrown his lot in with the Air Force, and the service had suited him. He’d left a neighborhood in South Philly that was sinking from middle class make-do into urban blight and decay, and seen the world and made a life for himself, while so many of his contemporaries had found their way into prison or a series of dead-end, low wage jobs. Otis had a good job, decent medical care, and a pension, and he still had his health. Lately, though, Mary’s mother had been ill, and they’d been talking about the possibility of him getting out and moving back to Oakland, where Mary had grown up, to take care of her. Her brother Jim ran his own security firm, and could offer Otis a job with benefits, so maybe it was time to make one last move, and put down roots for good. Ten years was a long time in one place, and there were friends and places he’d miss, but with any luck, he and Mary would have another thirty years in them before all was said and done, and thirty years was time to put down some serious roots.
He’d seen a great deal in his time in the service. He’d seen the fierce blizzards of Minot, South Dakota, and the wilting heat of Eglin and McDill in the grip of a Florida summer. He’d been to Vietnam, Turkey, and Germany, and he’d been able to show his kids castles and museums, things he’d only read about in books as kids, and scarcely thought were real. This world was full of wonders, but some of the oddest things he’d run into right here, guarding the entrance to a mountain in Colorado.
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K is for Knit
by wyomingnot
"I don't understand," Vala says, peering around Cam.
"Well, the combination of the heat and the vinegar..." Cam starts.
"No. I mean why. You can just go to the mall and buy whatever. Why go to all this effort? Why take all this time?"
"It gives me something to do. Lets me feel useful during downtime."
"Usefulness is overrated."
"It's relaxing."
"So are lots of other things."
"I like doing it, Vala. All of it. It reminds me of home. My mom taught me all the 'womanly arts'. I prefer to think of it as apocalypse preparedness." Cam winks. “I make a mean macaroon, too. ”
Vala rests a hand on Cam's arm. "Maybe you can teach me to knit later, when the yarn is done cooking."
Cam smiles. "You bet."
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L is for Lockdown
by sg1jb
It hadn't been until 2050 hours Saturday evening, almost four hours after SG-3's return - and one hour after they'd started showing signs of serious illness - that Janet abruptly realised there was a bigger problem afoot than she'd thought. When a tech from one of the labs on level twenty had wandered in asking for calamine lotion or the equivalent, one glance at the small reddened area on the man's neck had sent her heart into her throat and her hand to the telephone.
Fortunately, Colonel Dixon was senior officer on duty for the night. Smarter and easier than most to deal with, he hadn't even bothered trying to convince her they should first take the time to double-check whether or not the man had been either directly or indirectly exposed to SG-3. He'd simply said, "Oh crap," followed by "Yeah, okay," and it was a done deal. Within five minutes, the base had been sealed off and the SGC ventilation system isolated from the rest of the mountain and the outside.
She'd had no doubt as to the mode of transmission, and immediately ordered her staff into contamination gear and hoods. Judging from the small size and shallow penetration of the bites on SG-3 and the lab tech, she'd suspected the heavy suits were overkill but hadn't been about to assume anything until they found the vectors and got one of the little buggers under a magnifying glass. To which end, not fifteen minutes after her initial call to Dixon SG-3's bagged clothing and gear had been put under glass in the isolation lab, to be carefully examined.
At 2110, Dixon had called her with a full head count. There were only forty-eight people on base in addition to her staff and the patients already in the infirmary - a reassuringly small number of potential victims when compared to what might have been had SG-3 returned on a bustling Monday morning, but at the same time indicative of a disturbingly inadequate amount of skilled help. Dixon had also confirmed that although the tech had traveled a bit during the time between arriving on base for his twelve hour night shift and subsequently showing up in the infirmary, he hadn't had contact with anyone who'd been in the vicinity of SG-3 or their belongings.
That initial legwork done, by 2120 the corridors had been nailed down and everyone on base instructed to remain behind closed doors unless explicitly permitted otherwise.
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M is for You Must Remember This
by ivorygates
In May of 1961, construction started on a nuclear bunker at Cheyenne Mountain. In July of 1966, the Combat Operations Center functions were turned over to NORAD. In another July (in 1969), he was staring up at the ass-end of a Titan Missile in what had been the SGC Gate Room when he got out of bed that morning (Daniel had actually been surprised to find out there were seven Titan bunkers within 100 square miles, but the Cold War is a little recent for him). In 1976 (on some unknown date), the Air Force decided it would be a great idea to tunnel under NORAD to build a super-scientific secret project (he’s still not quite sure how they managed that, but there are questions he’s learned he really doesn’t want the answers to), and moved it in (Catherine Langford and her geeks and geeklets and-eventually-a merry band of Air Force Special Operations Forces). It was 1999 (March; late snow) the last time he parked his truck in Lot A. Which was either two weeks ago, or this morning.
Jack O’Neill really hates time-travel.
He’s got a sunburn from an August day that was thirty years ago and yesterday: the first time he saw that August he was seventeen in Minnesota waving his acceptance letter from the Academy like the Get Out Of Jail Free card that it was (in 1969, people worried about the Draft, the ’Nam, and it was ‘hell no, I won’t go,’ for half his generation and ‘my country: right or wrong’ for the other half; there’s a lesson there for cynics). It wasn’t that he wouldn’t have been proud to serve (the O’Neills tended to be Navy men), of course. It was just that he wanted to fly. (Wouldn’t you know it, four years later he was jumping out of perfectly good airplanes over the same godforsaken jungle half his high school classmates had been lost in.) And the second time-thirty years removed but not in any way that matters-he was in Washington DC, breaking into an armory to catch the brass (naquadaah) ring for a free ride home.
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N is for Normal
by rad1986
"I could use a research assistant," Dr. Jackson had mentioned. It had been a line of hope for Nyan as he sat in the hospital bed. No doubt Commander Rigar would quickly taint his name, painting him as a traitor to Bedrosia to become an Optrican spy. While the SG-1 team falsified everything he had grown up believing, their existence proved that there was a wide world out there that needed exploring. As an archeologist, exploration and new discoveries fascinated Nyan. Assisting SG-1 with whatever they brought back to Stargate Command became Nyan's new focus.
First he had to become accustomed to the base. It was huge compared to the small building allotted to him and his team back home. One level for the Stargate, one level for plants, one level for this chemical, guest quarters, personnel quarters, the prison, one level for this, one level for that; at least twenty-eight levels. (The grand total number is never made clear to him, though he never bothered to particularly care.) Nyan is given a permanent room and a tour. It takes him weeks to remember how to get around the place and back and forth from his room to the conference room or the cafeteria or Dr. Jackson's work room. He even assists Sam every so often with whatever project of the week she has going.
Secondly Nyan immerses himself in Daniel's research. (The kind man insists he be called by his first name.) Egyptology becomes the primary subject, that being what the Goa'uld assimilated into Earth's past. He also studies various other languages in the event they become necessary with whatever else SG teams bring back to the base. SG-1 particularly returns with the most interesting projects.
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O is for Observance
by magickmoons
Jack hated Orientation weeks. They were even worse than the scientific survey missions where he was essentially nothing more than a glorified gofer. Barring galactic emergencies, SG-1 was always pulled from the active mission schedule to lead the presentations. Jack supposed it was one of the hazards of working with the most valuable members of the command. No introduction to their enemy was effective as Teal’c (and Junior, of course). Carter knew the base tech inside and out. Daniel was not only The Man Who Opened the Gate, but provided context to all the things they would be likely to encounter.
And Jack... well, Jack gave the standard military talk: base SOP, chain of command, what meals to skip in the mess. But mostly, he spent a lot of time holed up in the office he liked to pretend he didn’t have, because General Hammond seemed to consider these weeks excellent opportunities for Jack to catch up on his paperwork.
He glared at the numerous requisition forms and staffing evaluations and budgets threatening to collapse his desk. After a moment’s thought, he reached past all of those to pick up the orientation course evaluations for the previous day’s presentations. That had been all Daniel and Carter; these would be a breeze. The only negative those two ever got was overusing geek speak. He could sign off on these in short order and head to lunch with a (mostly) clear conscience.
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P is for Plan (and also for Pie)
by tallulah_rasa
“I think I need a raise,” Daniel said.
Daniel’s voice was surprisingly clear, given the circumstances; he had to be closer than Jack had thought. Crap. “Now? You want to bring this up now, Daniel?”
“Not a good time?” Daniel hazarded.
“There’s an alien incursion at the Mountain,” Jack pointed out fairly calmly, given the still-blaring sirens. “Granted, there don’t seem to be a lot of them, but we don’t know what they want, or how they got past the iris. We barely got away from them, we’re unarmed, and we’re holed up in the commissary kitchen. Oh, and because of some weird alien hocus pocus, every other human on the base got transported off the mountain.”
“So you’re saying, this is just the usual?” Daniel asked. “Because…I don’t remember hiding out in the commissary before.”
Jack could imagine Daniel’s expression. “I’m not laughing,” he said flatly. He didn’t mean for the irritation to leak into his voice, but they were both injured, both huddled on the kitchen floor, and…well, he didn’t need his Magic 8 Ball to tell him the future was cloudy. Damn.
“I remember you being a lot more fun,” Daniel said. “Look, at the moment, we’re safe. Sam and Teal’c and everybody else are okay; we heard that before the comms shut down. The commissary staff was baking before they…” he waved his hand to indicate disappeared in one of the standard ways, “so it smells good here, and we won’t go hungry.” He shifted, and his voice hitched a tiny bit, but he continued smoothly before Jack could say anything. “We could be on that ice planet with the feral dog-things, or the one where everything smelled like a latrine. You have to admit, Jack, we’ve been in worse situations.”
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Q is for Questionnaire (aka "I Am Aware of All Internet Traditions")
by splash_the_cat
Teal'c's first experience with the Tau'ri obsession with questionnaires was a Cosmo magazine given to him by some airmen, early in his SGC tenure, in an attempt to, as O'Neill later described it, "Screw with the alien newbie." This, of course, was after O'Neill had stopped laughing when he walked in on Teal'c reading the questions to a vaguely horrified Daniel Jackson, to whom Teal'c had taken said questionnaire for assistance in deciphering the cultural cues and unfamiliar slang.
It was some years later that Cassandra began to send him internet-based questionnaires, in her own attempts to navigate her new cultural context. Most still made no sense to him, but he was content to humor her, for it was clear she gained both pleasure from their email interactions and some sense of stranger-in-a-strange-land camaraderie.
As he watched her navigate her world through the grouping of questions that veered between the banal and the deeply personal, he found them, after some time, a unique perspective into the cultural mores of his new home (though Daniel Jackson would explain to him they did not represent the Tau'ri as a whole, but specific regional, socio-economic and gendered clusters of human experience).
As Cassandra's comfort in her new world grew, so did the variety of queries she shared with him. Magazine quizzes became titillating middle-school purity tests (and Teal'c openly enjoyed bringing those to Daniel Jackson), became email chain quizzes, became Livejoural memes, became Reddit ask-me-anythings, became lolcat memes (by now he was used to the American Tau'ri penchant for internet-based speech modifications and shifts in word usage, so that he was only puzzled for a moment when the first feline-based caption picture arrived in his inbox, instead of the list of questions or requests to share an activity that he expected.), became Teal'c creating a Tumblr so that Cassandra could share a dizzying array of photographic collages depicting commentary on current events or scenes and character interactions from television and film.
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R is for Roan
by elder_bonnie
No one could quite remember whose idea it had been. The genesis of such things becomes lost over time in favor of the memory itself. But one thing led to another, as things have a tendency to do, and so it came to pass that Teal’c, former first prime of Apophis and leader of the free Jaffa rebellion, was featured on the cover of the autumn issue of Equine Lifestyles Quarterly.
Naturally, through his inherent inquisitiveness, it was Daniel who had discovered that Teal’c had never been horseback riding. Jack didn’t believe it, surely the first prime of Apophis had been on a horse, but Teal’c had reluctantly expressed that it was looked down upon, they were beasts of burden, and his status had allowed him to use much more sophisticated means of travel, such as Tel'tak vessels and the like. The idea of traveling across the surface of a planet on the back of a smelly animal was an offense to any self- respecting Jaffa.
Sam had asked about the Hak’tyl and their horses, and Teal’c had replied about there being no dishonor in their circumstances. And then Daniel, dear Daniel, the ultimate advocate for any and all sentient experiences, had to organize the field trip.
The stables were out in the general vicinity of Jack’s cabin - he’d been a couple times and knew the owner, and was able to get a small discount on account of his charm. The four of them had arrived one impossibly beautiful Sunday morning and Mabel, the owner, had greeted them from the barn house and led them through the stables, introducing them to the horses, talking about how much she loved photography. And then they'd realized Teal'c wasn't with them.
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S is for Sprained Ankle
by sidlj
"Hey, isn't that Daniel's car?" Sam asked.
The colonel pulled up in front of her house, set his parking brake and turned off the ignition. "Is it?" He climbed out and walked around the front of the truck.
Sam hurried to open the passenger door and swing her legs out. It was better to establish right away that she wasn't helpless. But the cane Janet had given her felt awkward, and she was actually glad for the helping hand as she climbed down from the truck. When the colonel's hand continued to hover at her elbow, however, she said, "Thanks, sir; I've got it now." The hand went away, but he continued to hover, in that overly casual way that wouldn't fool a two-year-old.
When the hand returned as she reached the foot of the porch steps, she gave into the inevitable and accepted his help to her front door. The colonel reached past her and rang the doorbell.
Sam looked at him. "Definitely Daniel's car."
He just smiled. "Should be open."
Sam turned the knob and swung the door inwards, nearly hitting Daniel with it. "Oh, sorry!" She stepped into the house. "Oh, good, you turned the a/c on." She wiped away a bead of sweat from her temple.
"Yeah, sorry," the colonel said. "Gotta get the truck fixed one of these days." He crowded into the hallway behind her. "Daniel? Want to give us enough room that I can shut the door and stop air conditioning the neighborhood?"
Daniel stepped back a scant foot.
"Sheesh," the colonel muttered. "Excuse me, Carter."
continued
T is for Team Night
by nymaeria
Jack fidgeted in his chair and tapped his pencil in boredom. They had just finished their third mission together as a team and were waiting for General Hammond for their debrief. He, for one, couldn’t wait to get out of here. He had that post-mission adreneline rush that left him both buzzing with energy and exhausted at the same time.
He looked around the room. Carter looked, somewhat annoyingly, as bright eyed and bushy tailed as she had that morning. She was sitting up straight, poised and ready for their meeting. Daniel was distracted by some book he’d brought with him from his office. Teal’c sat stoically at the table, his hands folded as he calmly waited. Jack had a lot of respect for his newest team member, but he still hadn’t quite learned to read him. He couldn’t tell if Teal’c was tired, annoyed, happy or what. Well, he supposed he’d get to know him better over time.
“You know,” Jack exclaimed suddenly. “We should really have a team night sometime.”
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U is for Unheimlich
by draegonhawke
The SGC was different when an SG team was out.
Well. Not quantifiably; there was no special change in the facility's operation when a team was out. (Medical and security staff were always at full compliment, because trouble didn't need to follow a team home to make itself known in the SGC.) The quarters which stood empty would stand just as empty when a team was on-world but off-duty. There weren't any faithful dogs sitting at the foot of the Stargate and waiting for their masters to come home.
Nothing so obvious.
Still, there was something different, and Hammond could feel it with every step he took. He knew it was probably a trick of his mind, but he swore that even if a team snuck away, he'd know it implicitly: it was a strange kind of proprioception, as though he'd put a hand out through the Stargate and was left uneasy until it was drawn back in again.
And SG-1 was late.
***
They showed up like a loosed breath three days overdue, looking somewhat sheepish for the concern that greeted them in the Gateroom, but otherwise untroubled.
Which was, all things considered, the best result Hammond could have hoped for after they blew past the initial check-in and their reconnaissance deadline without so much as a radio whisper. He waved them on to get themselves cleared by the infirmary and cleaned up, with orders to reassemble in the briefing room as soon as that was done. Where, after a brief inward reassurance that the ground was solid and all his limbs were where they should be, and a few minor tasks to pass the intervening time, Hammond joined them. "I expect there's a good reason you've been keeping us all up at night."
"Well," Colonel O'Neill said, with a tone that in one syllable told Hammond it would be a quip, "there's definitely a reason. Not sure if I would call it a good one."
continued
V is for Vodka and Victories (sp. pyrrhic)
by greenbirds
It is a fact long-established that General Jack O’Neill, darling of the amerikanskiyStargate program, notorious cowboy, and bol v zadnitse* in general, does not speak Russian. The good general has always left that thankless task for Dr. Daniel Jackson, who is a good lad, if utterly ignorant about history in the era post-dating 2000 BCE. But Dr. Jackson isn’t here.
Neither is Colonel Carter, or Teal’c of Chulak.
Neither is Cheyenne Mountain.
This is Washington, D.C., the most American of American cities (filled, the political officers told them in the days before Perestroika, with corrupt politicians and an assortment of sycophants; in that, at least, they were right).
Colonel Andrei Chekov studies the man behind the polished wood desk (silver-haired, distinguished, and when did they all get so damned old?) and thinks that General O’Neill doesn’t like Washington any better than he does, particularly not on a day like today.
O’Neill looks old, worn, weary. There have been too many memorials these last few days, and there will be more in the weeks to come.
It is the misfortunate of old soldiers, Chekov thinks, to watch war from a distance and funerals from entirely too close at hand.
“You guys saved our asses out there,” O’Neill says. In English, of course, but that’s all right. “If it hadn’t been for Korolev and her men, we’d be toast.”
“Bog dal, bog ivzyal,” Chekov says. “God gave, god took back. She was a good ship.”
He thinks of submarines, lying at the bottom of the North Sea under fathoms of cold gray water. He thinks of men drowning, or freezing, or dying the slow death of radiation poisoning.
He supposes what happened to Korolev was better.
(Gone, between one breath and the next, in a flash of light. Perhaps her crew hadn’t had time to be afraid.)
A soft, sloshing thunk startles Chekov out of his reverie. O’Neill has set a bottle of vodka on his desk. Good honest Russian vodka, not the amerikanskiy swill that comes in pretentious blue bottles and promises not to leave you with a hangover. O’Neill sets two squat glasses beside it, sloshes a stiff snort of liquid into each.
“Zemlya pukhom,” O’Neill says, raising his glass.
It’s the traditional toast to the dead.
His Russian is terrible. Chekov smiles anyway.
*pain in the ass, at least if you ask Google translate.
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W is for Wrestling
by madders_ahatter
From S5 ep 3 Ascension:
O’Neal and Teal’c visit Carter with pizza and a movie [Star Wars] but she sends them away because Orlin is inside.
O'NEILL
So, now what?
TEAL'C
I have read of a place where humans do battle in a ring of Jell-O.
O'NEILL
Call Daniel.
[They get in O'Neill's car.]
THIS IS THE CONTINUATION OF THAT SCENE (OUTTAKE) AS IT MIGHT HAVE GONE...
TEAL’C dials Daniel’s number and presses speakerphone
O’NEILL (on phone)
Hey, Daniel, watcha doin?
DANIEL (also on phone)
Trying to finish this translation. I thought you and Teal’c had gone to Sam’s for pizza. I assumed I’d get some peace and quiet.
O’NEILL
She blew us off. Gotta hot date or.... something.
DANIEL (tilts his head and frowns in puzzlement)
Really?
O’NEILL
So she said. Go figure. Whatever. Point is we’re at a loose end and Teal’c suggested wrestling.
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X is for Explore
by ivorygates
The first time Teal’c got to see the world outside the Mountain they were chasing a shapchanging alien bomb. Teal’c hadn’t been on Earth more than a few weeks then. He got his information about his new alien home from CNN, and he thought Earth was a pretty scary place.
Jack had offered to show him around, but it was a promise he found surprisingly hard to keep. The second time Teal’c left the Mountain it was to help him and Carter pack up Daniel’s apartment, since they thought Daniel was dead. He also got to come to Daniel’s wake, which Jack supposes doesn’t really count as either a social occasion, or as seeing Earth. (Fortunately Daniel wasn’t dead. That was also when Jack discovered Monty Python didn’t translate across cultures.)
The third time Teal’c got to go out also involved exploding aliens. Only this one didn’t explode after all, and she got to stay. (They’d just found out Teal’c had a boy about Cassie’s age a few weeks before, and that’s an associational road Jack isn’t going to go down, thanks so much.) He has to admit that a visit to a mothballed Titan missile silo was probably not what Teal’c had in mind when he asked to be shown Earth (missile silos seem to be a recurring motif in the life of one Colonel Jack O’Neill, but let that pass), though.
It wasn’t that Teal’c never got outside. They were outside every time they stepped through the Stargate. (It was usually raining.) But it also wasn’t Earth. He knew Teal’c wanted to see Earth. He wanted to understand it. (Good luck there, big guy.) The paperwork seemed to go on forever, though. Teal’c didn’t officially exist, and in the eyes of Washington, the easiest way to deal with little problems like that was to ignore them. (And Teal’c.)
continued
Y is for Yearly Physical
by ivorygates
“If we just had a physical three months ago-which we did-why are we having another one now?”
“That was a quarterly physical, Daniel. This is an annual physical.”
“‘Annual’ implies ‘yearly.’ As in: ‘once every twelve months,’” Daniel protested.
“And amazingly, this time last year, here we were.”
The two of them were sitting side by side on a bench in a waiting room in their underwear. Teal’c always took up a lot of the docs’ time, and while Carter got the same treatment he and Daniel did (more or less), the Air Force in its infinite wisdom had decided long ago that these exciting bonding sessions weren’t meant to be co-ed. Maybe it was the underwear thing. In which case, Jack was very very worried about the medical department’s grasp of a Gate Team’s average working day.
“But we were also here three months ago,” Daniel pointed out.
“Which was a quarterly physical,” Jack said.
Yearly physicals were standard: he’d endured them since he’d joined the Air Force. In addition to determining that you weren’t about to die suddenly (and therefore cost the Air Force a great deal of money), it also assessed mystical qualities like “preparedness”. Preparedness meant lying to someone up the chain of command about your work life, your home life, your marriage (where applicable), and your one hundred percent lack of nightmares, stress, and second thoughts about any subject whatsoever. In the good old days, passing an eval meant one more step up the ladder of promotion. Good assignments. Shiny toys. The chance to participate in (and cause) really spectacular explosions. He’d always known he’d never make General (combat track or not), and he’d actually been surprised to make Full Bird. (He’d told Sarah he’d get out after that, if he had his twenty, but there’d been one more thing, and one more thing, and then it didn’t matter any more.)
“Which implies that this...is also a quarterly physical?” Daniel suggests.
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Z is for Zombie
by lord_spyridon
"Sir, we can't hold for much longer. They've overrun SG-2's position and are threatening SG-3 and 4. They're just too many of them!" Jack O'Neill, Colonel and leader of SG-1, could hear the desperation in his second-in command's voice. The only time, he had ever heard the all-consuming panic was only when the odds began against them; SG-1 fighting all alone on Apophis' mothership during their first year together, the multiple times when they had thought Daniel lost to them forever, the list went on for them.
He keyed his mic. "Major, hold your position. That's an order! The planet is depending on us. Daniel, go and reinforce Carter. Teal'c, how are you holding up?" From his position, he could see Daniel running from where he was on the other side of Teal'c's position to slide right where Carter was, taking all of his ammo with him. The two scientists quickly launched another counter-offensive, keeping their position from crumbling under another onslaught.
"I fear that this will be SG-1's last stand, O'Neill. Another wave is preparing to attack, one with greater forces than the previous waves." Even their trusty Jaffa couldn't keep the resignation out of his voice.
Giving up when the odds were against them wasn't in SG-1's handbook. No, they were fighting to the bitter end. "Not today, campers. Lock and load. We're going down fighting!"
"Colonel, it's Reynolds. We're almost out of ammo and we about to be o. . . ." The mic went dead, the static a grim note in Jack's ear.
continued
Enjoy over 46,000 words of on-world gen fic in 27 stories! Word counts range from less than 200 to over 9,000. Ratings range from G to PG-13, and expect spoilers for the entire series.
Since the full anthology is much too long for LJ's posting constraints, most of the stories below are excerpted, with the links to the full fic on the author's individual journal. Readers are strongly encouraged to follow the links to the authors' individual journals and leave feedback. You can also read the full, unabridged anthology on Dreamwidth.
A is for Alien
by sg_fignewton
Despite her dutiful refrain about being "from Toronto," Cassandra was genuinely worried that she was going to slip up and somehow reveal her alien status. Never mind the larger sizes of the three moons back on Hanka, or the different technological level that still had her gaping at things like electricity. There was so much she didn't know about on the cultural level - religious beliefs, common manners, children's games, fairy tales, even nursery rhymes! Surely someone would notice the way she tapped her right shoulder as a gesture to ward off bad luck, or her half-aborted curtsy to any bearded man as an automatic acknowledgment of his assumed authority. And what would happen then?
She remained tense and anxious about a potential disaster for months, cringing every time she thought she'd given herself away. But no one seemed to care, beyond an initial startled blink, if she'd never heard of Superman or didn't know that birds fly south for the winter. Her friends or teachers simply explained the reference and continued talking as if nothing had happened.
She quietly voiced her concerns to Janet, once, but her surrogate mother only smiled and hugged her.
"Don't worry about it, Cassandra," Janet told her. "You're forgetting that most people here on Earth have no idea that there's life out there. Why would they imagine that you're from off-world?"
Cassandra thought about Star Trek: Deep Space 9, Power Rangers in Space, and Dragon Ball Z.
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B is for Bibliotherapy
by sallymn
Soft, slightly flat door chimes. Weak, shifting sunlight filtering through time-dulled windows and making the dust motes seem to swirl. Soft rustle of pages, and that smell he hasn't come across for a year now... a mix of the dust, aging leather and old paper, stale coffee dregs in forgotten cups, and a general... mustiness, with a hint of dank sweetness.
He really hasn't missed all this. Not at all. He'll keep telling himself that.
And he's, well, kind of sure that his ex-ex-teammate hasn't either. After all, there really couldn't have been old bookshops in the higher realms.... or could there? He'll have to ask Daniel, when and if Daniel remembers anything about the higher realms he's spent the last year swanning about in, or about old bookshops, or about anything at all for that matter...
Which is why Jack O'Neill is standing in the doorway of Books and Crannies and breathing in that old bookstore smell that he hasn't missed. Because if anything is going to kickstart Doctor Jackson's missing memories into some sort of working order, his favorite places in the whole of Colorado ought to do it.
Such as Booktique, Colorado Springs.
The Book Barn, Greeley.
Buy the Book, Aurora.
Bibiophilia, Colorado Springs.
Bookwyrms, Denver.
Bookends, Denver.
The Bookman Cometh, Fort Collins
... and back home to Books and Crannies, here in good old Colorado Springs.
"I hope you're happy, Doctor Jackson," he mutters.
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C is for Coffee
by thothmes
Jack O'Neill woke, as he usually did, a few moments before his alarm sounded, and seeing that it would soon be making that really, really annoying buzzing sound, he turned it off. He took a moment to savor the absence of pain anywhere, knowing that as soon as he rolled over and began the process of getting up and getting going, his body would start to complain. Too many injuries, too many hard landings, too many years. He was home, though, and didn't need to protect his image. so he rolled over with a groan, and slowly, stiffly, pushed himself into a sitting position, and then gathered himself for a moment before standing, and walking as slowly and as shufflingly as the old man he felt like, he made his way to the bathroom, to shower, shave, and otherwise complete his morning routine. First thing, though, were a couple of ibuprofen. With the painkillers on board, a hot shower, a shave, and a few agonizing stretches, he would be able to present a picture of a field ready soldier, lithe, limber, and at the peak of physical condition. This was one of his bad days though, and he chose to take extra time in the shower over a chance to make coffee. He'd pick something up in the commissary when he got to the SGC. Even if it was bitter, black, and strong enough to eat its way from his stomach straight through to his heart, it was going to be better than the uselessly boneless instant stuff that was currently inhabiting his cabinets. He was looking forward to finishing the jar and buying something better soon. He had his eye on the espresso powder Daniel had pronounced to be the only mildly civilized alternative to "proper" - read chi-chi - coffee. He just didn't want to get it too soon, or Jackson might think that he was taking his advice and get all puffed up.
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C is for Caretaker
by rad1986
Wanted:
Part-time property caretaker.
Two days a week.
Light housework, paid travel.
$15 per hour.
Call 555-8222.
Her mother had given her the wanted ad; said it would do her some to finally get a job. Parents... what did they know anyway? Still, with college coming up and her wanting to move out anyway, Sharon really did need to start earning her more money and stepping away from the nest. Small steps; she'd still need help paying for that car she'd been drooling over.
She calls the number and is requested to come for an interview in a few days at the temp agency building. Sharon fumbles her way through a resume, showers, dons khaki pants and a button-up and arrives ten minutes early. The female interviewer is nice and asks generic questions about how Sharon does in school, what she likes to do, and if she can follow the twice-a-month cleaning schedule and other mundane questions. Sharon feels like the interview was a breeze and she expects that someone else on the interview's list will get the job. That's totally fine with her, she'll find something somewhere.
It comes as a surprise when three days later she receives a call saying she's hired. The next day her mother drops her off at the house in question - cute little thing only a few blocks from home - and is given a tour and a key. The job is close and super easy. She'd been helping her mother clean the house since she was nine; forced labor if you ask her. But still, vacuuming and basic dusting aren't that hard. And the pay is fantastic... $30 for two hours!
Sharon never bothers to care who the pretty blonde woman in the pictures is.
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D is for Detained
The Delicate Balance of Trust
by traycer_
"I'm bored."
Daniel looked up from the book he was trying to read and sighed. Keeping Jack down for longer than five minutes was a trial in itself.
"Yeah, well so am I," he said with just a trace of aggravation in his tone.
"Well at least you have something to read," Jack grumbled. "And Carter has her laptop, and even Teal'c has... well he can meditate." This last was said with a firm nod as if to prove his point. Daniel just stared at Jack in amusement.
"You could try reading something too," he said, knowing full well that reading was not what Jack wanted to do.
"Read?" The look on his face affirmed Daniel's suspicions. Jack definitely did not want to read. "No," he said as he began to pace around the room. "I need to be doing something else."
"We're being detained," Sam said from her desk. "We have to deal with what we have."
"Not enough," Jack announced with a flair. "We need to... I need to do something... constructive."
"Perhaps you should work on your mission report," Teal'c suggested. Daniel couldn't help but think that was the wrong answer in Jack's view, but he understood Teal'c's reasoning behind the suggestion.
"No," Jack said with a grimace, giving credence to Daniel's thoughts. "Not even close."
"Okay," Daniel said giving up on his book for the moment. "What do you have in mind?"
continued
E is for Empathy
by eilidh17
Vala Mal Doran considered herself to be an observant person. Perhaps a little perceptive. Astute even. Paying attention to details, even while appearing to be easily distracted, had proven to be very lucrative for her in the past, and none more so than today. She had taken her place at the back of the crowded lecture room on level 18, tablet in one hand, stylus in the other, looking for all the world like she genuinely wanted to be there. Which, of course, she didn't.
It was all very ho-hum for her. These lectures, presented mostly by Daniel as part of the indoctrination process for new 'recruits' to the SGC, seemed designed to lull students to sleep rather than educate them. She rolled her eyes at the stupidity of it all as she took her seat, surrounded by camouflage-clad marines who clearly regarded deodorant as an effective bio-weapon for the senses.
Today's lecture was Ancient 101, and was a step up from the First Contact class of several days before where, much to Daniel's chagrin, she had proudly raised her hand and volunteered to play the alien in the practical side of the lesson. The marines all cheered vigorously and formed a line. Daniel dipped his head to his chest and whispered something she was glad she couldn't hear.
continued
F is for Future
by 11am_street
“C’mon Harrison! Hurry up; we’re going to be late!” Lieutenant Allison Reynolds shouted to her friend, Lieutenant George Daniel Harrison.
“Alright alright, I’m coming!” the lieutenant shouted as he adjusted the insignias on his dress uniform. They had to be perfect, today was a special day. Today was the day that he and his fellow soldiers and hopefully eventual teammates, friends really, would be inducted as part of the Stargate Program.
“Oh Dani!” Allison shouted as she knocked on the door. “Yeah yeah,” replied Harrison as he gave himself once last look in the mirror. Not a single hair was out of place and his insignia were perfectly straight. He grabbed his hat and left the locker room.
“I’m here,” he said as he pushed opened the door and saw his best friend waiting for him along with Allison. “You know, it’s usually us girls that take a long time in the bathroom,” she laughed as she high fived Daniel’s friend, John Bender, also a new recruit to the program.
The three friends, who had been friends since their early days at the Air Force Academy, marched toward the elevators and pushed the button for Level 28. All three soldiers were overcome with pre ceremony jitters as they excitedly fidgeted in the elevator, smiling nervously at each other. The moment the car stopped and the doors opened, however, the soldier fa?ade was back in place as they marched steadily toward the Embarkation Room they paused briefly and smiled excitedly, their eyes shining with pride. As they entered through the doors, they were overwhelmed by the sight. It was not the first time they had been in the legendary “gate room”, but it was their first time to be in the presence of such notable members of the program. They fell into place with their fellow soldiers, all part of the new recruits to be sworn in as members of Stargate Command.
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G is for Godparent
by stringertheory
Over the years, Jack collected many accolades, each with its own worth and meaning. The official variety were the easiest to identify and understand. Every time the symbols on his shoulders changed, it indicated higher authority, broader responsibility, a heavier burden. The medals pinned to his jacket signified valor and daring feats; they commanded respect and admiration.
Less straightforward were the personal recognitions interwoven into military life. There were thousands of ways big and small that soldiers honored one another, unique to the individuals involved and the circumstances invoked. Jack had been given plane tickets, family heirlooms, specially prepared meals, hand-knit scarves, and one beloved vintage-era trading card. One of the men under his command - barely older than a boy, really - had even given Jack a small glass phial containing some of the shrapnel that had been recovered from his leg. Considering Jack had been the one to haul the man over his shoulder and cart him all the way to the field hospital, the offering had the mark of both a thank you and a trophy - “Here, remember what you did.”
His soldiers gave him trinkets, mementos, and memories. But it was always special when they gave him their children.
Being a godparent had different connotations for military personnel than it did for civilians. For all that it was a symbolic gesture to both, civilians had an understanding that, should the worst happen, they would be called upon to see to the child's well-being. Jack never entertained the same notions. When these men and women asked him to be a godparent to their child, he never expected that he would step into their boots should they not make it home. Neither did they. There were grandparents and aunts and uncles to fulfill that role. Hell, odds being what they were, it was highly likely that Jack would die before any of them, so surrogate parenthood was clearly not the intention.
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H is for Half-Life
by sg_wonderland
I was engrossed in SG-12’s mission report when a flash of movement caught my eye. Glancing up, I realized Daniel was lurking in my doorway. Suppressing the inevitable sigh, I invited him in. Since his return, he won’t enter anyone’s room or lab or office without express consent. The door would always be left wide open. I have yet to figure out if it’s a method of discouraging personal conversation or if it was Daniel’s way of insuring a speedy escape. Consequently, I feel the chasm between Daniel and SG-1 widening every day.
He was stiff and formal and so clearly uncomfortable that I want to hug him tight but I realized that would lead to more stiffness and formality. There is this beautiful shell where a friend used to be and I hate it. “Daniel, you know you don’t have to ask me every time you want to come in.”
“I…I didn’t used to do that?” He perched uneasily on the stool opposite me, keeping the wide lab table between us.
“Oh, Daniel, you used to burst in one anyone, anywhere, without thinking about it.” My smile fades. “I wish, just once, you’d come in here like your hair was on fire.”
He shifted uncomfortably. “We used to be pretty good friends, huh?”
“The very best.”
continued
I is for Insight
by gategremlyn
“Oh, my,” Daniel sputtered as he wiped the tears from his eyes. “Tell me you didn't.”
“I did,” Sam said. “To a general. And me just barely out of the academy. I thought for sure I was done.”
“What did he do?”
“He said,” and Sam put down her beer bottle so she could place both hands on her hips, “he said, 'Young lady, I may be wrong, but I'm a general. The only people who can tell me I'm wrong are my staff. And you aren't one of them... yet. So keep your opinions to yourself.'”
Daniel grabbed a tissue to wipe his eyes. “I can so see you as a wet-behind-the-ears lieutenant. Did you keep your opinions to yourself?”
“Well, let's say I kept them to a select group of people,” she admitted. “Okay, I've told you about a time I cried, now somebody else tell one.”
They were at the easy part of night when, lubricated with a few beers, the stories came. It was a time-honored tradition for SG-1, especially after a mission like the one they'd just had. Seeing Daniel as a Prior, knowing they'd started a war they weren't sure they could finish.... Well, it had been a rough few days.
continued
J is for Just a Bit Off Base
by thothmes
Sgt. Otis Jefferson was coming up on his thirtieth year in the Air Force, and was thinking of retiring. Like most enlisted men, he had gone where the service sent him, moving every few years, living on or near various bases at home or abroad, often as not uprooting his family to be with him, but occasionally enduring long separations when that was not safe or possible. For the last ten years he had been lucky enough to pull a relatively cushy spot at Cheyenne Mountain. Okay, so maybe it wasn’t as prestigious as landing guard detail at the White House, but that was a job for Marines in any case. His mama, God rest her soul, had been a wise woman and had warned him against going into the Marines, and from what he had seen of what the Corps expected of them, Mama had been right. She usually was.
Be that as it may, Otis had thrown his lot in with the Air Force, and the service had suited him. He’d left a neighborhood in South Philly that was sinking from middle class make-do into urban blight and decay, and seen the world and made a life for himself, while so many of his contemporaries had found their way into prison or a series of dead-end, low wage jobs. Otis had a good job, decent medical care, and a pension, and he still had his health. Lately, though, Mary’s mother had been ill, and they’d been talking about the possibility of him getting out and moving back to Oakland, where Mary had grown up, to take care of her. Her brother Jim ran his own security firm, and could offer Otis a job with benefits, so maybe it was time to make one last move, and put down roots for good. Ten years was a long time in one place, and there were friends and places he’d miss, but with any luck, he and Mary would have another thirty years in them before all was said and done, and thirty years was time to put down some serious roots.
He’d seen a great deal in his time in the service. He’d seen the fierce blizzards of Minot, South Dakota, and the wilting heat of Eglin and McDill in the grip of a Florida summer. He’d been to Vietnam, Turkey, and Germany, and he’d been able to show his kids castles and museums, things he’d only read about in books as kids, and scarcely thought were real. This world was full of wonders, but some of the oddest things he’d run into right here, guarding the entrance to a mountain in Colorado.
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K is for Knit
by wyomingnot
"I don't understand," Vala says, peering around Cam.
"Well, the combination of the heat and the vinegar..." Cam starts.
"No. I mean why. You can just go to the mall and buy whatever. Why go to all this effort? Why take all this time?"
"It gives me something to do. Lets me feel useful during downtime."
"Usefulness is overrated."
"It's relaxing."
"So are lots of other things."
"I like doing it, Vala. All of it. It reminds me of home. My mom taught me all the 'womanly arts'. I prefer to think of it as apocalypse preparedness." Cam winks. “I make a mean macaroon, too. ”
Vala rests a hand on Cam's arm. "Maybe you can teach me to knit later, when the yarn is done cooking."
Cam smiles. "You bet."
feedback
L is for Lockdown
by sg1jb
It hadn't been until 2050 hours Saturday evening, almost four hours after SG-3's return - and one hour after they'd started showing signs of serious illness - that Janet abruptly realised there was a bigger problem afoot than she'd thought. When a tech from one of the labs on level twenty had wandered in asking for calamine lotion or the equivalent, one glance at the small reddened area on the man's neck had sent her heart into her throat and her hand to the telephone.
Fortunately, Colonel Dixon was senior officer on duty for the night. Smarter and easier than most to deal with, he hadn't even bothered trying to convince her they should first take the time to double-check whether or not the man had been either directly or indirectly exposed to SG-3. He'd simply said, "Oh crap," followed by "Yeah, okay," and it was a done deal. Within five minutes, the base had been sealed off and the SGC ventilation system isolated from the rest of the mountain and the outside.
She'd had no doubt as to the mode of transmission, and immediately ordered her staff into contamination gear and hoods. Judging from the small size and shallow penetration of the bites on SG-3 and the lab tech, she'd suspected the heavy suits were overkill but hadn't been about to assume anything until they found the vectors and got one of the little buggers under a magnifying glass. To which end, not fifteen minutes after her initial call to Dixon SG-3's bagged clothing and gear had been put under glass in the isolation lab, to be carefully examined.
At 2110, Dixon had called her with a full head count. There were only forty-eight people on base in addition to her staff and the patients already in the infirmary - a reassuringly small number of potential victims when compared to what might have been had SG-3 returned on a bustling Monday morning, but at the same time indicative of a disturbingly inadequate amount of skilled help. Dixon had also confirmed that although the tech had traveled a bit during the time between arriving on base for his twelve hour night shift and subsequently showing up in the infirmary, he hadn't had contact with anyone who'd been in the vicinity of SG-3 or their belongings.
That initial legwork done, by 2120 the corridors had been nailed down and everyone on base instructed to remain behind closed doors unless explicitly permitted otherwise.
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M is for You Must Remember This
by ivorygates
In May of 1961, construction started on a nuclear bunker at Cheyenne Mountain. In July of 1966, the Combat Operations Center functions were turned over to NORAD. In another July (in 1969), he was staring up at the ass-end of a Titan Missile in what had been the SGC Gate Room when he got out of bed that morning (Daniel had actually been surprised to find out there were seven Titan bunkers within 100 square miles, but the Cold War is a little recent for him). In 1976 (on some unknown date), the Air Force decided it would be a great idea to tunnel under NORAD to build a super-scientific secret project (he’s still not quite sure how they managed that, but there are questions he’s learned he really doesn’t want the answers to), and moved it in (Catherine Langford and her geeks and geeklets and-eventually-a merry band of Air Force Special Operations Forces). It was 1999 (March; late snow) the last time he parked his truck in Lot A. Which was either two weeks ago, or this morning.
Jack O’Neill really hates time-travel.
He’s got a sunburn from an August day that was thirty years ago and yesterday: the first time he saw that August he was seventeen in Minnesota waving his acceptance letter from the Academy like the Get Out Of Jail Free card that it was (in 1969, people worried about the Draft, the ’Nam, and it was ‘hell no, I won’t go,’ for half his generation and ‘my country: right or wrong’ for the other half; there’s a lesson there for cynics). It wasn’t that he wouldn’t have been proud to serve (the O’Neills tended to be Navy men), of course. It was just that he wanted to fly. (Wouldn’t you know it, four years later he was jumping out of perfectly good airplanes over the same godforsaken jungle half his high school classmates had been lost in.) And the second time-thirty years removed but not in any way that matters-he was in Washington DC, breaking into an armory to catch the brass (naquadaah) ring for a free ride home.
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N is for Normal
by rad1986
"I could use a research assistant," Dr. Jackson had mentioned. It had been a line of hope for Nyan as he sat in the hospital bed. No doubt Commander Rigar would quickly taint his name, painting him as a traitor to Bedrosia to become an Optrican spy. While the SG-1 team falsified everything he had grown up believing, their existence proved that there was a wide world out there that needed exploring. As an archeologist, exploration and new discoveries fascinated Nyan. Assisting SG-1 with whatever they brought back to Stargate Command became Nyan's new focus.
First he had to become accustomed to the base. It was huge compared to the small building allotted to him and his team back home. One level for the Stargate, one level for plants, one level for this chemical, guest quarters, personnel quarters, the prison, one level for this, one level for that; at least twenty-eight levels. (The grand total number is never made clear to him, though he never bothered to particularly care.) Nyan is given a permanent room and a tour. It takes him weeks to remember how to get around the place and back and forth from his room to the conference room or the cafeteria or Dr. Jackson's work room. He even assists Sam every so often with whatever project of the week she has going.
Secondly Nyan immerses himself in Daniel's research. (The kind man insists he be called by his first name.) Egyptology becomes the primary subject, that being what the Goa'uld assimilated into Earth's past. He also studies various other languages in the event they become necessary with whatever else SG teams bring back to the base. SG-1 particularly returns with the most interesting projects.
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O is for Observance
by magickmoons
Jack hated Orientation weeks. They were even worse than the scientific survey missions where he was essentially nothing more than a glorified gofer. Barring galactic emergencies, SG-1 was always pulled from the active mission schedule to lead the presentations. Jack supposed it was one of the hazards of working with the most valuable members of the command. No introduction to their enemy was effective as Teal’c (and Junior, of course). Carter knew the base tech inside and out. Daniel was not only The Man Who Opened the Gate, but provided context to all the things they would be likely to encounter.
And Jack... well, Jack gave the standard military talk: base SOP, chain of command, what meals to skip in the mess. But mostly, he spent a lot of time holed up in the office he liked to pretend he didn’t have, because General Hammond seemed to consider these weeks excellent opportunities for Jack to catch up on his paperwork.
He glared at the numerous requisition forms and staffing evaluations and budgets threatening to collapse his desk. After a moment’s thought, he reached past all of those to pick up the orientation course evaluations for the previous day’s presentations. That had been all Daniel and Carter; these would be a breeze. The only negative those two ever got was overusing geek speak. He could sign off on these in short order and head to lunch with a (mostly) clear conscience.
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P is for Plan (and also for Pie)
by tallulah_rasa
“I think I need a raise,” Daniel said.
Daniel’s voice was surprisingly clear, given the circumstances; he had to be closer than Jack had thought. Crap. “Now? You want to bring this up now, Daniel?”
“Not a good time?” Daniel hazarded.
“There’s an alien incursion at the Mountain,” Jack pointed out fairly calmly, given the still-blaring sirens. “Granted, there don’t seem to be a lot of them, but we don’t know what they want, or how they got past the iris. We barely got away from them, we’re unarmed, and we’re holed up in the commissary kitchen. Oh, and because of some weird alien hocus pocus, every other human on the base got transported off the mountain.”
“So you’re saying, this is just the usual?” Daniel asked. “Because…I don’t remember hiding out in the commissary before.”
Jack could imagine Daniel’s expression. “I’m not laughing,” he said flatly. He didn’t mean for the irritation to leak into his voice, but they were both injured, both huddled on the kitchen floor, and…well, he didn’t need his Magic 8 Ball to tell him the future was cloudy. Damn.
“I remember you being a lot more fun,” Daniel said. “Look, at the moment, we’re safe. Sam and Teal’c and everybody else are okay; we heard that before the comms shut down. The commissary staff was baking before they…” he waved his hand to indicate disappeared in one of the standard ways, “so it smells good here, and we won’t go hungry.” He shifted, and his voice hitched a tiny bit, but he continued smoothly before Jack could say anything. “We could be on that ice planet with the feral dog-things, or the one where everything smelled like a latrine. You have to admit, Jack, we’ve been in worse situations.”
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Q is for Questionnaire (aka "I Am Aware of All Internet Traditions")
by splash_the_cat
Teal'c's first experience with the Tau'ri obsession with questionnaires was a Cosmo magazine given to him by some airmen, early in his SGC tenure, in an attempt to, as O'Neill later described it, "Screw with the alien newbie." This, of course, was after O'Neill had stopped laughing when he walked in on Teal'c reading the questions to a vaguely horrified Daniel Jackson, to whom Teal'c had taken said questionnaire for assistance in deciphering the cultural cues and unfamiliar slang.
It was some years later that Cassandra began to send him internet-based questionnaires, in her own attempts to navigate her new cultural context. Most still made no sense to him, but he was content to humor her, for it was clear she gained both pleasure from their email interactions and some sense of stranger-in-a-strange-land camaraderie.
As he watched her navigate her world through the grouping of questions that veered between the banal and the deeply personal, he found them, after some time, a unique perspective into the cultural mores of his new home (though Daniel Jackson would explain to him they did not represent the Tau'ri as a whole, but specific regional, socio-economic and gendered clusters of human experience).
As Cassandra's comfort in her new world grew, so did the variety of queries she shared with him. Magazine quizzes became titillating middle-school purity tests (and Teal'c openly enjoyed bringing those to Daniel Jackson), became email chain quizzes, became Livejoural memes, became Reddit ask-me-anythings, became lolcat memes (by now he was used to the American Tau'ri penchant for internet-based speech modifications and shifts in word usage, so that he was only puzzled for a moment when the first feline-based caption picture arrived in his inbox, instead of the list of questions or requests to share an activity that he expected.), became Teal'c creating a Tumblr so that Cassandra could share a dizzying array of photographic collages depicting commentary on current events or scenes and character interactions from television and film.
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R is for Roan
by elder_bonnie
No one could quite remember whose idea it had been. The genesis of such things becomes lost over time in favor of the memory itself. But one thing led to another, as things have a tendency to do, and so it came to pass that Teal’c, former first prime of Apophis and leader of the free Jaffa rebellion, was featured on the cover of the autumn issue of Equine Lifestyles Quarterly.
Naturally, through his inherent inquisitiveness, it was Daniel who had discovered that Teal’c had never been horseback riding. Jack didn’t believe it, surely the first prime of Apophis had been on a horse, but Teal’c had reluctantly expressed that it was looked down upon, they were beasts of burden, and his status had allowed him to use much more sophisticated means of travel, such as Tel'tak vessels and the like. The idea of traveling across the surface of a planet on the back of a smelly animal was an offense to any self- respecting Jaffa.
Sam had asked about the Hak’tyl and their horses, and Teal’c had replied about there being no dishonor in their circumstances. And then Daniel, dear Daniel, the ultimate advocate for any and all sentient experiences, had to organize the field trip.
The stables were out in the general vicinity of Jack’s cabin - he’d been a couple times and knew the owner, and was able to get a small discount on account of his charm. The four of them had arrived one impossibly beautiful Sunday morning and Mabel, the owner, had greeted them from the barn house and led them through the stables, introducing them to the horses, talking about how much she loved photography. And then they'd realized Teal'c wasn't with them.
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S is for Sprained Ankle
by sidlj
"Hey, isn't that Daniel's car?" Sam asked.
The colonel pulled up in front of her house, set his parking brake and turned off the ignition. "Is it?" He climbed out and walked around the front of the truck.
Sam hurried to open the passenger door and swing her legs out. It was better to establish right away that she wasn't helpless. But the cane Janet had given her felt awkward, and she was actually glad for the helping hand as she climbed down from the truck. When the colonel's hand continued to hover at her elbow, however, she said, "Thanks, sir; I've got it now." The hand went away, but he continued to hover, in that overly casual way that wouldn't fool a two-year-old.
When the hand returned as she reached the foot of the porch steps, she gave into the inevitable and accepted his help to her front door. The colonel reached past her and rang the doorbell.
Sam looked at him. "Definitely Daniel's car."
He just smiled. "Should be open."
Sam turned the knob and swung the door inwards, nearly hitting Daniel with it. "Oh, sorry!" She stepped into the house. "Oh, good, you turned the a/c on." She wiped away a bead of sweat from her temple.
"Yeah, sorry," the colonel said. "Gotta get the truck fixed one of these days." He crowded into the hallway behind her. "Daniel? Want to give us enough room that I can shut the door and stop air conditioning the neighborhood?"
Daniel stepped back a scant foot.
"Sheesh," the colonel muttered. "Excuse me, Carter."
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T is for Team Night
by nymaeria
Jack fidgeted in his chair and tapped his pencil in boredom. They had just finished their third mission together as a team and were waiting for General Hammond for their debrief. He, for one, couldn’t wait to get out of here. He had that post-mission adreneline rush that left him both buzzing with energy and exhausted at the same time.
He looked around the room. Carter looked, somewhat annoyingly, as bright eyed and bushy tailed as she had that morning. She was sitting up straight, poised and ready for their meeting. Daniel was distracted by some book he’d brought with him from his office. Teal’c sat stoically at the table, his hands folded as he calmly waited. Jack had a lot of respect for his newest team member, but he still hadn’t quite learned to read him. He couldn’t tell if Teal’c was tired, annoyed, happy or what. Well, he supposed he’d get to know him better over time.
“You know,” Jack exclaimed suddenly. “We should really have a team night sometime.”
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U is for Unheimlich
by draegonhawke
The SGC was different when an SG team was out.
Well. Not quantifiably; there was no special change in the facility's operation when a team was out. (Medical and security staff were always at full compliment, because trouble didn't need to follow a team home to make itself known in the SGC.) The quarters which stood empty would stand just as empty when a team was on-world but off-duty. There weren't any faithful dogs sitting at the foot of the Stargate and waiting for their masters to come home.
Nothing so obvious.
Still, there was something different, and Hammond could feel it with every step he took. He knew it was probably a trick of his mind, but he swore that even if a team snuck away, he'd know it implicitly: it was a strange kind of proprioception, as though he'd put a hand out through the Stargate and was left uneasy until it was drawn back in again.
And SG-1 was late.
***
They showed up like a loosed breath three days overdue, looking somewhat sheepish for the concern that greeted them in the Gateroom, but otherwise untroubled.
Which was, all things considered, the best result Hammond could have hoped for after they blew past the initial check-in and their reconnaissance deadline without so much as a radio whisper. He waved them on to get themselves cleared by the infirmary and cleaned up, with orders to reassemble in the briefing room as soon as that was done. Where, after a brief inward reassurance that the ground was solid and all his limbs were where they should be, and a few minor tasks to pass the intervening time, Hammond joined them. "I expect there's a good reason you've been keeping us all up at night."
"Well," Colonel O'Neill said, with a tone that in one syllable told Hammond it would be a quip, "there's definitely a reason. Not sure if I would call it a good one."
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V is for Vodka and Victories (sp. pyrrhic)
by greenbirds
It is a fact long-established that General Jack O’Neill, darling of the amerikanskiyStargate program, notorious cowboy, and bol v zadnitse* in general, does not speak Russian. The good general has always left that thankless task for Dr. Daniel Jackson, who is a good lad, if utterly ignorant about history in the era post-dating 2000 BCE. But Dr. Jackson isn’t here.
Neither is Colonel Carter, or Teal’c of Chulak.
Neither is Cheyenne Mountain.
This is Washington, D.C., the most American of American cities (filled, the political officers told them in the days before Perestroika, with corrupt politicians and an assortment of sycophants; in that, at least, they were right).
Colonel Andrei Chekov studies the man behind the polished wood desk (silver-haired, distinguished, and when did they all get so damned old?) and thinks that General O’Neill doesn’t like Washington any better than he does, particularly not on a day like today.
O’Neill looks old, worn, weary. There have been too many memorials these last few days, and there will be more in the weeks to come.
It is the misfortunate of old soldiers, Chekov thinks, to watch war from a distance and funerals from entirely too close at hand.
“You guys saved our asses out there,” O’Neill says. In English, of course, but that’s all right. “If it hadn’t been for Korolev and her men, we’d be toast.”
“Bog dal, bog ivzyal,” Chekov says. “God gave, god took back. She was a good ship.”
He thinks of submarines, lying at the bottom of the North Sea under fathoms of cold gray water. He thinks of men drowning, or freezing, or dying the slow death of radiation poisoning.
He supposes what happened to Korolev was better.
(Gone, between one breath and the next, in a flash of light. Perhaps her crew hadn’t had time to be afraid.)
A soft, sloshing thunk startles Chekov out of his reverie. O’Neill has set a bottle of vodka on his desk. Good honest Russian vodka, not the amerikanskiy swill that comes in pretentious blue bottles and promises not to leave you with a hangover. O’Neill sets two squat glasses beside it, sloshes a stiff snort of liquid into each.
“Zemlya pukhom,” O’Neill says, raising his glass.
It’s the traditional toast to the dead.
His Russian is terrible. Chekov smiles anyway.
*pain in the ass, at least if you ask Google translate.
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W is for Wrestling
by madders_ahatter
From S5 ep 3 Ascension:
O’Neal and Teal’c visit Carter with pizza and a movie [Star Wars] but she sends them away because Orlin is inside.
O'NEILL
So, now what?
TEAL'C
I have read of a place where humans do battle in a ring of Jell-O.
O'NEILL
Call Daniel.
[They get in O'Neill's car.]
THIS IS THE CONTINUATION OF THAT SCENE (OUTTAKE) AS IT MIGHT HAVE GONE...
TEAL’C dials Daniel’s number and presses speakerphone
O’NEILL (on phone)
Hey, Daniel, watcha doin?
DANIEL (also on phone)
Trying to finish this translation. I thought you and Teal’c had gone to Sam’s for pizza. I assumed I’d get some peace and quiet.
O’NEILL
She blew us off. Gotta hot date or.... something.
DANIEL (tilts his head and frowns in puzzlement)
Really?
O’NEILL
So she said. Go figure. Whatever. Point is we’re at a loose end and Teal’c suggested wrestling.
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X is for Explore
by ivorygates
The first time Teal’c got to see the world outside the Mountain they were chasing a shapchanging alien bomb. Teal’c hadn’t been on Earth more than a few weeks then. He got his information about his new alien home from CNN, and he thought Earth was a pretty scary place.
Jack had offered to show him around, but it was a promise he found surprisingly hard to keep. The second time Teal’c left the Mountain it was to help him and Carter pack up Daniel’s apartment, since they thought Daniel was dead. He also got to come to Daniel’s wake, which Jack supposes doesn’t really count as either a social occasion, or as seeing Earth. (Fortunately Daniel wasn’t dead. That was also when Jack discovered Monty Python didn’t translate across cultures.)
The third time Teal’c got to go out also involved exploding aliens. Only this one didn’t explode after all, and she got to stay. (They’d just found out Teal’c had a boy about Cassie’s age a few weeks before, and that’s an associational road Jack isn’t going to go down, thanks so much.) He has to admit that a visit to a mothballed Titan missile silo was probably not what Teal’c had in mind when he asked to be shown Earth (missile silos seem to be a recurring motif in the life of one Colonel Jack O’Neill, but let that pass), though.
It wasn’t that Teal’c never got outside. They were outside every time they stepped through the Stargate. (It was usually raining.) But it also wasn’t Earth. He knew Teal’c wanted to see Earth. He wanted to understand it. (Good luck there, big guy.) The paperwork seemed to go on forever, though. Teal’c didn’t officially exist, and in the eyes of Washington, the easiest way to deal with little problems like that was to ignore them. (And Teal’c.)
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Y is for Yearly Physical
by ivorygates
“If we just had a physical three months ago-which we did-why are we having another one now?”
“That was a quarterly physical, Daniel. This is an annual physical.”
“‘Annual’ implies ‘yearly.’ As in: ‘once every twelve months,’” Daniel protested.
“And amazingly, this time last year, here we were.”
The two of them were sitting side by side on a bench in a waiting room in their underwear. Teal’c always took up a lot of the docs’ time, and while Carter got the same treatment he and Daniel did (more or less), the Air Force in its infinite wisdom had decided long ago that these exciting bonding sessions weren’t meant to be co-ed. Maybe it was the underwear thing. In which case, Jack was very very worried about the medical department’s grasp of a Gate Team’s average working day.
“But we were also here three months ago,” Daniel pointed out.
“Which was a quarterly physical,” Jack said.
Yearly physicals were standard: he’d endured them since he’d joined the Air Force. In addition to determining that you weren’t about to die suddenly (and therefore cost the Air Force a great deal of money), it also assessed mystical qualities like “preparedness”. Preparedness meant lying to someone up the chain of command about your work life, your home life, your marriage (where applicable), and your one hundred percent lack of nightmares, stress, and second thoughts about any subject whatsoever. In the good old days, passing an eval meant one more step up the ladder of promotion. Good assignments. Shiny toys. The chance to participate in (and cause) really spectacular explosions. He’d always known he’d never make General (combat track or not), and he’d actually been surprised to make Full Bird. (He’d told Sarah he’d get out after that, if he had his twenty, but there’d been one more thing, and one more thing, and then it didn’t matter any more.)
“Which implies that this...is also a quarterly physical?” Daniel suggests.
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Z is for Zombie
by lord_spyridon
"Sir, we can't hold for much longer. They've overrun SG-2's position and are threatening SG-3 and 4. They're just too many of them!" Jack O'Neill, Colonel and leader of SG-1, could hear the desperation in his second-in command's voice. The only time, he had ever heard the all-consuming panic was only when the odds began against them; SG-1 fighting all alone on Apophis' mothership during their first year together, the multiple times when they had thought Daniel lost to them forever, the list went on for them.
He keyed his mic. "Major, hold your position. That's an order! The planet is depending on us. Daniel, go and reinforce Carter. Teal'c, how are you holding up?" From his position, he could see Daniel running from where he was on the other side of Teal'c's position to slide right where Carter was, taking all of his ammo with him. The two scientists quickly launched another counter-offensive, keeping their position from crumbling under another onslaught.
"I fear that this will be SG-1's last stand, O'Neill. Another wave is preparing to attack, one with greater forces than the previous waves." Even their trusty Jaffa couldn't keep the resignation out of his voice.
Giving up when the odds were against them wasn't in SG-1's handbook. No, they were fighting to the bitter end. "Not today, campers. Lock and load. We're going down fighting!"
"Colonel, it's Reynolds. We're almost out of ammo and we about to be o. . . ." The mic went dead, the static a grim note in Jack's ear.
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