Disclaimer: Anything you recognise, isn't mine. I just own this story. Which was meant to have more to it, but then didn't...Ah well, maybe one day.
Turning, and Stepping Forwards
Drip, drip. There was a leaking tap, somewhere near. Drip. Or maybe a broken pipe. Nothing that was immediately visible, in this wasteland of broken objects.
The teenager, dressed in old, faded fatigues and battered combat boots, picked his way slowly through the rubble, dirt staining his hands and clothes. He was determinedly showing no emotion, holding his feelings rigidly in check. There was no one else in sight – no one living, that is. And no authorities would be appearing to drag him away from the condemned area any time soon. Even if any remained - and there was all but no chance of that - they would be taking whatever remained of their families and going to what ground they could find.
Even the most stubborn of deniers would be accepting, by now, the very real presence of the aliens. The destruction of any and every area of possible resistance had seen to that. Every area of possible resistance save, that is, for the schools, which were still standing. Whether this was because these invaders had morals, or simply hadn't foreseen any chance of schoolchildren organising any form of rebellion, was yet to be seen.
Nevertheless, the schools had been spared. Worse luck for the aliens, whatever they were – the human race had never been one to just lie down and give in, no matter young they were. There would, at some point, still be a fight.
And there was still hope.
But for now, the faux-16-year-old was free to mourn for the dead in relative peace, with no interruption. The ruins of Cheyenne Mountain Complex were extensive, and deep. Every so often a piece a shifted downwards, fell further into what were once the underground levels of the base. Further into what had once been the SGC.
The fires had all burnt out long ago, but singed patches remained, as did puddles of what may or may not have been water. The chances of the teenager recognising anything he found in the rubble were negligible – anything recognisable from his former life would have been further down, long since buried. As would be anyone he could have recognised.
Eventually he reached the point where, he calculated, the Stargate would be lying directly below him. It would still be there, he knew – it takes a lot to destroy naquadah. Maybe one day it would be unburied once more – but that was a matter for the future. He was here for the past. Here for the past, and its laying to rest. Maybe one day he'd even be able to determine if any of the people from that past were still living. Whether they were or not...that was another matter. But no matter who they are, everyone needs hope, that last and greatest of Pandora's gifts.
Straightening, he spoke quietly, to all those lost.
'It was an honour.'
Jonathan O'Neill the Second turned, away from his past, towards the future, and began walking out of the ruins. Maybe one day he'd come back. In the future, if he had one. But for now he had a war to fight, a future to fight for, and an army of abandoned schoolchildren. And the Tau'ri were not going to be defeated – not on his watch.
Maybe they did have something – a second chance in truth – to thank that meddling bastard Loki for, in the end.