Hey, everyone!

This is a long one. Like, really long. So long, in fact, that I considered splitting it into 2 chapters. But I didn't. So...Happy replies to reviews, and then story!

Terri--yes, kids have to go through that nowadays. Or, they did 10 years ago when I was that age.(Ten years already? Agh! I'm getting old!) To tell the truth, it helped me eventually, although not until the instructions had been deciphered--much grief with that.

Shannon K--(munches happily on cake...) Really, I didn't want to upset anyone...not with lectures, and not with cranberry sauce. But I stand by my cranberry beliefs!

Blaze--Thank you, for the six (SIX!) reviews! I love you!

kittn--Not that type of cookie! Hands over virtual choc chip cookie Enjoy... ;)

Wow, they like me...I'm being way too pitifully happy about this, aren't I? Somebody kick me. -Emilie :)

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Ch. 7

Daniel

Tuesday, Jack drops me off at the entrance to the school, and I make my way through the hallway by myself. It's a little earlier than it was yesterday, so kids are still roaming the halls. I look around: there's the office. And from the office, I go…

A kid who's at least ten, maybe twelve, pushes me. "Get out of the way, runt!" he yells. I stumble, and look back at him. He's staring at me.

"Really heroic," I mutter, "picking on a first-grader." I walk in the direction of my classroom—or try, since people are pushing past me. Not like the bully, though—these kids don't even realize I'm here, whereas he was being malicious.

Lindsay appears out of nowhere. "That was really brave," she says. "I woulda cried."

I shrug. "Wouldn't have done any good," I mutter.

She smiles. "I'm Lindsay," she offers, and I realize we haven't been formally introduced—that is, I know her name from a worksheet I peeked at, and she knows mine from our teacher.

"Daniel," I s-ay, returning the smile.

With this, Lindsay clearly considers us to be best buds, and grabs my hand. "Come on!" she yells. "It's faster if you push." With that, she starts weaving her way through the crowd, gripping my hand painfully so that I'm pulled along.

Finally, in the upstairs hallway, it's less crowded. Lindsay lets go of my hand. "Wanna play blocks?" she asks, and I shrug.

"Sure," I say. After all, she's not going to wait for an answer—she's already inside the classroom.

So we play with blocks for a while—or rather, I watch while she makes an elaborate design on the floor that looks something like a Celtic knot, then starts adding layers of blocks. By the time the cow bell rings, she's added five layers to the original.

The day starts much like Monday did. We take our seats after clearing up the blocks, and then Mrs. Fern starts talking about phonics.

Only ten minutes into the lesson, though, a middle-aged man opens the door and pokes his head in. "Jane," he asks, "can I have Daniel Jackson for twenty minutes or so?" I frown at the mention of my name, and look more closely at him.

"Certainly," says Mrs. Fern. "I'm afraid I forgot to tell him about it—Sorry, Daniel," she adds, looking at me. "Daniel, this is Dr. Kenneth. He's our school psychologist. He'd like to ask you some things in his office, okay?"

I nod. I'm aware that all the other kids are staring at me, and I blush as I get out of my seat.

"You won't need your backpack," the doctor says cheerfully. He's stepped into the classroom, and I can see that he's got a button-down shirt on, and a very colorful tie. I quickly walk towards him, eager to get out of sight of the curious eyes of my classmates.

We walk down the hallway. Every few steps I have to run a little to keep up with him. His office, however, is not too far away, and when we get there he opens the door and gestures me inside with a flourish. I look around. It's pretty clean, with a few chairs and a dark carpeted floor. The desk has reams of papers on it. "Take any seat you'd like," the doctor says, smiling. I sit down in an armchair—orange—that looks comfy, if aesthetically hideous. I look carefully at the fabric, and realize there are a few tiny purple bits in the weave.

"Okay," he says, sitting in a wheely chair at his desk, "you're Daniel Jackson, and I'm Dr. Kenneth. Any questions?"

I blink in speculation. "Why do child psychologists tell kids to call them by both their titles and their first names? Why the mix between formality and familiarity?"

He raises his eyebrows, presumably at the oh-so-large words I've been using. "Well," he says, "I suppose they think the title gives them some authority in the eyes of the kids. Some reason for them to listen, you know. And the use of first names makes them more approachable. Do you know what approachable means?"

I nod, and he smiles. "Okay. But Dr. Kenneth is my real title and my real last name. My first name is Alan." I nod again. It makes me feel better that he's not going to be patronizing me—or at least not trying to. The doctor continues, "You can call me anything you'd like. Most kids call me Dr. Kenneth, but you can call me Dr. Alan or just plain Alan. Okay?"

"Okay," I say.

"So…" He digs a yellow notepad out from the piles of papers on his desk. "Daniel Jackson. Do you know what we're going to do in here?"

I shrug. "You ask questions and I answer them?" I hazard.

He smiles. "Basically. Are you ready? Is there anything you'd like to know?" I shake my head impatiently, and he chuckles. "Okay, then. What's your birthdate?"

"July eighth," I reply automatically, "Nineteen—" Well, 1965 isn't going to work. I think. If I'm six, and it's 2005, I was 'born' in—"ninety-nine."

He nods, scribbling, not noticing the pause. "Do you know where you were born?"

Aboard an Asgard ship, actually. I'm a clone.

"Colorado Springs," I say. Close enough.

"Can you describe your family for me?"

I blink. Well, I don't really have one, except a whole bunch of people who aren't related to me. Some aren't even human.

"My dad's dead," I say. The original me. Actually, the original me is still in a coma, which I find creepy and therefore have not thought about much. "I live with an Air Force colonel named Jack O'Neill. He's the second in command on Cheyenne Mountain's deep space telemetry program."

Dr. Kenneth nods, still writing. "How about your mom?" he asks. "Do you know anything about her?"

I shrug: not really. Well, yeah, I mean, she was named Claire, and she died in 1973. But that's not exactly going to keep me from being considered a little loony, is it? "I never knew her," is all I say.

"And you knew your dad?" I nod. Sure, I knew…me. "What did he do for a living?"

"He was an archaeologist." Is an archaeologist. And will be again when you guys decide my social skills are up to par.

Of course, Mackenzie's had doubts for years, so…

"So, now you're in foster care?" he asks, and I scowl. Not noticing, he continues. "No relatives to take care of you?"

"No relatives," I say sullenly, "but I'm not a foster child. Jack is—was a friend of m—my dad, so he's adopting me."

The psychologist looks at me and smiles. "That's good," he says softly, and I nod. Yeah, it is. When I was eight, and my parents died, I became determined that there wasn't a god. There couldn't be. Despite that, I prayed to every god I could think of each night for them to come back—and later, for someone to adopt me. In the end, everyone loved me but didn't want to keep me. I know I'm lucky there's someone who wants to keep me this time around.

Dr. Kenneth interrupts my thoughts. "So you're being home-schooled, right?" I nod. "What's your favorite subject?"

"History," I say, and he adds some more scribbles to his page.

"What do you like about it?"

I shrug. "Learning about different cultures, what they did—what they're doing now. How life could go if we were offered different choices."

This is actually my answer for why I like going off-world, but I realize it works pretty well here, too.

He nods. "How about your least favorite subject?"

"Math." Right away, I know the answer to that question. When I was in school the first time around, I rather liked math: it was simple, and there was always one right answer, and no mucking around with 'Well, if you just thought about it from this angle…' But last night has cemented my new hatred of math.

"Okay," he says. "What are some interesting things about you that you'd like me to know?"

"What is this, a college interview?" I mutter. I went with Cassie to some college interviews just before being shrunk, and they all go exactly like this these days. Aloud, I say, "I dunno. There's not much interesting about me."

"Aw, c'mon…there has to be something cool you know about. Can you juggle? Know more than one language?"

There's one! "I know a few languages," I offer, and he raises his eyebrows.

"How many?"

Oh, a few. "Um…six?" Is that a good amount to tell him? If I told him twenty-three, plus dead languages and languages that have never been spoken on Earth, he'd look at me a little oddly.

"Really?" He actually looks interested. "What languages?"

"Um…Spanish, French, Russian, German, Italian, Greek, Dutch…" That's six, right?

"That's seven."

Oh.

"Seven, then," I say dismissively.

"Plus English."

"No, you know, I don't really speak English all that well, you know?"

He chuckles. "That's amazing," he says. "Do you like languages?"

I shrug. I never really thought about it, to tell the truth. I just…picked them up, like rocks.

The doctor checks his watch, and puts his pad down. "That's all for now," he says. "I'll want to meet with you in another week or so, though, okay?"

I nod: fair enough.

He walks me back to my classroom, where they're just finishing up phonics for the day. When I enter the classroom, all Mrs. Fern says is, "Welcome back, Daniel. Please take your seat."

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Right after Language Arts, we have P.E. Currently there's a unit on dodgeball, which you'd think as a geek and a wimp, I'd be bad at. However, I'm pretty quick, and usually managed, as a child, to hold my own. However, I haven't played dodgeball since I was twelve, so I confess to being a little nervous.

"Calm down," Lindsay says. "Dodgeball is fun." I shrug.

"What did Dr. Kenneth talk about?" Lindsay asks. "Did he talk about your mom and dad and stuff?"

I shrug again. "I guess," I say. "I don't actually have a mom or dad, so there wasn't much to talk about."

Her mouth becomes a big O. "You don't have a mom or dad? Who takes care of you?"

"I live with a guy named Jack," I explain. "He's the guy who dropped me off yesterday. He works for the Air Force, at Cheyenne Mountain."

"Really?" Lindsay's voice becomes excited. "My dad works at Cheyenne Mountain too. He's a linguinist and he speaks lots of languages."

Linguinist, eh? "What's his name? Maybe Jack knows him." Maybe he works for me, actually. That'd be odd…going to school with your underling's daughter.

"His name is Dr. Joseph Breton, and he's really really really smart." There's obvious pride in her voice.

Well, this is an interesting development. "I think Jack knows him," I say cautiously.

"Cool! Maybe you can come over to my house sometimes."

"Maybe," I say noncommittally. That'd be…weird, as much as I like Breton. And, as much as I'm coming to like his daughter.

Dodgeball is actually pretty fun. Lindsay and I try the entire time to get each other out, and manage to dodge each other for about half the game.

Around the middle of the game, I hear a ball bouncing behind me, and turn towards it, and trip—just as I hear Lindsay shouting, "Daniel!"

I feel something hit the back of my head, and then I'm suddenly lying on my belly, aware of pain across my right cheek. I hear a whistle, and lift myself up slightly.

"Daniel!" I hear Lindsay's voice again. "Are you okay?"

I'm slightly dazed, and blink. "I think so," I murmur, touching my cheekbone gently. It's very sore, and when I look at my fingertips I see blood.

"He hit the ground pretty hard," a voice above me says, and I realize I'm surrounded by people, both kids and adults. One of the adults, however, is in the process of shooing the kids away—"C'mon, he needs some room!"

One of the adults, the main gym teacher, kneels down next to me. "Stay where you are," he says. "You're going to be fine."

My head's clearing pretty fast now, and I realize that while I'm probably going to have a bruise, and maybe a butterfly bandage for a couple days, I'm otherwise okay.

"I'm okay," I tell him, and try to sit up—but he puts his hand on my chest and pushes me down.

"Just wait a minute, okay?" he says, looking at me worriedly. "The nurse will be here in a minute."

"I'm fine," I mutter, but stay put.

The nurse does indeed come in a few minutes, and tsks at the gash on my cheek. "Has he talked at all?" she asks. She's looking straight at me, but obviously not talking to me.

"A little," answers the gym teacher, who's now looming over me, standing right behind the nurse.

"I can talk," I say defiantly, and she smiles.

"Okay," she says. "Can you tell me your name?"

Oh, she thinks I have a concussion. Well, I don't think I have one. They usually feel a lot worse than this. "Daniel Jackson," I say.

"And your birthday?"

"July eighth." What is it with people and my birthday today?

She nods. "Do you think you can walk?"

I consider it quickly, and nod. Yeah, I guess I can walk. As long as you don't mind me bleeding on the floor a little.

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She has me lie on one of the infirmary beds—very different from those in Janet's infirmary. These are more like cots, and the blankets have teddy bears on them, which are holding balloons. She puts an ice pack on my cheekbone, and instructs me not to take it off, and to tell her if the bleeding gets worse.

So I lie there, and she calls somebody—and asks for Daniel Jackson's mom, which I suppose doesn't get her very far. Eventually, though, she manages to get through to someone who's willing to listen to what's happened, and apparently someone decides they should come get me, because she hangs up and says, "You should be out of here soon, don't worry."

I shrug. "Can I have a bandage for my face?" I ask, and she smiles. "I'm not sure that would work," she says. "You might need stitches."

Stitches? Well…Maybe. But something to mop up this blood couldn't hurt, could it? It's still bleeding pretty heavily.

She takes pity on me and gets some gauze, wadding it up to hold up against the gash, but won't put it on until she uses some stingy stuff—alcohol, I presume—to clean the cut.

So I'm lying on this short little cot, with the school nurse puttering around, and glancing at me every once in a while. And then Jack comes in, right in front of this kid who's—I kid you not—actually looking a little green. The nurse takes one look at the green kid and he's gone—in the bed, vomitus basin at hand.

Jack looks at me as she gets the sick kid settled and calls his parents. "Just hafta go looking for trouble, don't you?" he asks, squatting by me—and wincing when his knees crack and groan.

I shrug. "I guess," I say. "It was dodgeball. 'Snot my fault."

"Yeah, well…" Jack carefully takes the ice pack off of the gauze, and the gauze off my face. He winces slightly at the mess, but says, smiling, "I think you'll live."

"Oh, thank goodness," I say dryly. "For a minute there I was really worried."

The nurse cuts our banter short. "Daniel, are you ready to go home?" I nod, and she looks at Jack. "He might need stitches, but I'm not sure," she says quietly. "You should take him to the emergency room just in case—or his regular doctor if she's available. Dr. Frasier, right?"

"Yeah," Jack says. "Will do."

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We're quickly at the base. I get some "Aww, idn't da widdle boy so cute..." reactions, and some "Aww…da poor widdle boy's hurt…" but Jack gives them stern glances and most desist.

When we get to the infirmary, where there are real sized beds, thank you, Janet is talking with someone. Since my glasses were bent out of shape when I was playing dodgeball, I'm not quite sure who it is.

He looks at me, however, and straightens up. "Doctor Jackson!" he exclaims. "What are you doing here? I thought they were making you attend some elementary school."

It's Dr. Breton, I see, as I approach. "Your daughter, actually," I say, smiling. "She's got a pretty good throwing arm."

The linguist looks horrified. "What's she done now?" he whispers sotto voce.

I snort. "Dodgeball," I say. "No big deal, I promise."

"Whatever you say, Dr. Jackson," he says mechanically, and turns to leave the infirmary.

"Remember to take the antibiotics!" Janet calls after him, then sighs. "He'll forget," she mutters to herself, then turns to me. "I heard you got yourself hurt again," she says tartly, and I shrug helplessly.

"It wasn't my fault," I protest, climbing—literally—onto the bed. Maybe those cots were okay after all. "I got hit with a rubber ball. And I tripped."

She smiles. "Well, okay," she says. "I guess I won't scream too much today."

Jack wipes his brow in mock relief. "Thank god," he says. "You know most of that yelling was going to be for my benefit."

"Because it was obviously your fault." I turn to him, rolling my eyes. "You weren't even there."

Janet grips my chin. "Hold still, please," she says, looking at the cut. She carefully wipes it clean with Betadine, and says, "I don't think this needs stitches. A couple butterfly bandages should do."

"Hah!" I yell.

She frowns at me. "But it's pretty borderline. If it starts bleeding again, I want you to come back and get me to look at it again, okay?"

I nod, and she gets the butterfly bandages.

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Later that night, I'm working on my laptop when Jack calls up the stairs. "Daniel!" he says. "Phone!"

I sigh, push my chair back, and run down the stairs.

"Hello?"

"D-Daniel?" It's a girl's voice, and she's crying. "I-I'm sorry I hit you—I didn't mean to hurt you. Only they wouldn't l-let me come closer and then you left and I didn't know if you were okay and—"

"Whoa, whoa," I interrupt. "I know. It's okay, I don't blame you. And I'm okay."

"Really?" She sniffs.

"Yeah. I'll be back in school tomorrow, okay?"

She sobs. "My dad says I made him lose his job because his boss is mad you got hurt."

Uh, what? "Your dad isn't going to lose his job," I reassure her. "Tell him that from me—uh, from Jack, okay? Tell him it's definitely not his fault, and it's not your fault either. It was just an accident."

Another sniff. "Okay. Thanks, Daniel."

I smile. Now we're getting somewhere. "All right, I'll see you tomorrow." I hang up.

Jack looks at me. "What was that about?"

I sigh, annoyed. "That idiot Breton told his daughter that this—" I gesture to my cheek— "is gonna get him fired, and that it's all her fault."

Jack raises his eyebrows. "Wow," he says. "That's gotta be…"

"Like I said, he's an idiot."

"Maybe you should fire him," Jack suggests.

I shrug. "He's good at what he does."

"I guess."

I smile suddenly. "What?" Jack asks.

"Just thinking what I'd do if you tried to pull the guilt thing on me like that…"

Jack frowns. "Okay, first of all, it's insulting that you'd think that of me."

I shrug. "Yeah, but if…"

"What?"

"I'd laugh."

"Yeah," Jack says gloomily. "I don't get any respect."

I laugh, and he shoots me a dirty look. "See what I mean?" he mutters. "No respect."

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