"Long story short? He's in a coma."

"How about long story long?" Tony was out of bed, though he had at least followed medical advice so far as taking it easy went. He spoke from his seat in the corner, where he felt tempted to try and curl up and fall right back to sleep. His head was already pounding and listening to any sort of medical mumbo jumbo was bound to make it worse but he had already decided he would rather know as many of the details as possible. The nitty gritty, at least, the things that mattered. As a result of the attack that woman had unleashed on him back in that building he had missed a lot of what had happened and he was in no rush to miss anything else.

Doctor Smith gave him one of those looks that told him she was mustering some extra patience in order to deal with his request, and he gave her as sincere a smile as he could muster, along with a single-shoulder shrug by way of apology. He wasn't trying to yank her chain or push her buttons. They would all appreciate the details, he was sure, and from the look on the Doctor's face he figured she couldn't help but agree. She had probably only been summarising to try and save time, though what they might otherwise be in a rush to do was well beyond Tony.

With a glance towards O'Neill, as if checking to see whether or not the Lieutenant was up for it, Doctor Smith drew in a breath and said, "All right." She looked around at the faces of those gathered in med bay, dotted around in various places where they could stand or sit out of the way of any routine back and forth by the staff, though Tony had noticed that they were making themselves scarce for the time being. They were probably worried about imposing, or overhearing something they shouldn't. Tony didn't really see what the big deal was, especially now that the worst of it seemed to be over and done with, but it was probably more about habit than anything else at this point. Seeing members of the senior staff like Captain Bridger and Commander Ford together somewhere other than the bridge, and obviously in discussion, probably told them to keep their distance.

"From what I can tell," Doctor Smith went on, "he is in a coma, but—" There was a moment of hesitation. "It's unlike anything I've ever seen before, honestly." She looked around once again, reminding Tony of a teacher checking that everyone in the classroom was paying attention. "I can't be sure but I believe his consciousness, his real consciousness, is trying to work its way back to the surface."

They all knew what she meant by that whole real remark. Tony wouldn't be forgetting that mean look on Ortiz's face any time soon, that was for sure.

"So why is he in a coma?" Henderson asked from her place at the foot of O'Neill's bed, where she had perched herself carefully. O'Neill had shuffled his feet well out of the way to enable her to do so. "Now that that thing has been disrupted, can't he just—" She made an upward gesture with one hand.

"That's just it," the Doctor said. "I think it might have been the signal, and the disruption of it, that's delayed the whole process."

Lucas was frowning. "Are you saying that disrupting the signal made it harder for Ortiz to reclaim his own body?"

With a small shrug Doctor Smith said, "Honestly? All of this is just guesswork on my part. Nothing like this has ever been documented, and you said yourself that the technology never got past the prototype stage, and it wasn't widely tested." At that Lucas rested back in his chair, giving a conceding nod. "Either way it's not your fault that this happened. You did exactly what had to be done." She waited until the teenager glanced up at her so she could give him a soft smile, and then went on, "It's possible that the situation might improve once the device has been removed, but again, that's all speculation."

"You haven't removed it yet?" Ford asked, a little incredulously.

"No," Doctor Smith told him matter-of-factly. "I'm not a surgeon, Commander, and even if I was I would need to be absolutely certain that I wasn't going to do even more damage by removing it."

"Well you can't just leave it there," O'Neill said, sounding a little concerned, almost as if some part of him worried that that was what might happen.

"No, of course not." She gave him a small smile, one which faded quickly. "But it was inserted in the back of his neck, and any sort of surgical procedure in that area is delicate."

Tim frowned. "And dangerous."

The Doctor gave a small nod. "Yes."

"So," Ford sighed. "Like you said: long story short, he's in a coma."

"Yes." Doctor Smith sighed as well. "On top of that he has a hairline fracture through his jaw, the energy burn to his arm, and some other bruising. He'll be sore for a while when he wakes up."

Tony noticed she used when and not if. Maybe that was for the benefit of those like O'Neill, but he figured it was probably more to do with Doctor Smith's refusal to be anything but optimistic. He had noticed that about her early on. It was a good trait to have, especially in situations like what they were dealing with now.

"He has a fractured jaw?" Lonnie looked a little pale. "I didn't—"

Doctor Smith shook her head. "I don't think it was you. Or Brody, for that matter." She glanced in the direction of the Lieutenant, who was still unconscious. "It's much more likely that it was Irina's companion who caused the damage."

"What about Brody? What's his condition?" Ford had followed her glance towards the Security Officer, turning back to her in order to ask the question.

"He has a fair amount of bruising, like Ortiz," she said, with a weary sounding sigh. "We stopped the bleeding in his shoulder, and the various other cuts he sustained from the broken glass. He has a mild concussion, nothing too serious but we're keeping an eye on it all the same." She met the Commander's gaze with her own. "He'll be out of commission for a little while, but it could have been a lot worse."

As in that guy could have killed him. Tony knew that was what she meant, and from what he'd seen of the guy it wouldn't have been too difficult either. It was a good thing Dagwood had been on hand to take him down or they might not have stood a chance. Between that kind of formidable physical power and the Dvornikov lady's psychic abilities they would have been well and truly out of their depth, especially with Ortiz effectively turned against them at the time.

Captain Bridger spoke at last, sighing as he leaned forward in his seat before saying, "Well, the good news is that we have Irina Dvornikov and her associate in custody, and we retrieved the stolen information."

"And it wasn't cloned, copied, or transferred in any way," Lucas interjected from his seat, sitting back in his seat to the point of slouching, though Tony suspected it was more to do with tiredness than anything else. "In fact, it looks like she never even accessed the information on the drives." Brows raised he shook his head with a small huff that might have been a laugh. "All that effort and she didn't even look at it."

"She was confident she had exactly what she needed," Bridger said, looking over at the teenager.

"Confident? More like arrogant." Ford had his arms crossed over his chest, a disapproving expression on his face.

"That too," the Captain agreed, "but one doesn't necessarily mean the other, not in all cases." He glanced up at the Commander. "Someone with her level of power had every right to be confident." Ford didn't look like he agreed, at least not completely, but he didn't argue.

"So what do we do with her now?" Henderson glanced over to the bed where the woman in question was lying, unconscious and unaware, or so they all hoped. Tony felt the slightest chill trickle down his back at the idea that she might be even the slightest bit aware of what was happening now. He had had her in his head once, and he never wanted anything like that in there again.

Maybe when things had calmed down, really calmed down, he would ask Doctor Smith if she could teach him to block things like that out of his head. Even the smallest defence was better than what he had now, which was essentially nothing at all. He might not have been truly psychic like Doctor Smith, or the sedated woman, but he had latent potential. Apparently. Surely he could learn how to protect himself if nothing else.

"That's the question," Bridger said, with another sigh. "General McGath is consulting specialists in psychic phenomena in order to try and figure out what can be done." With a glance at Doctor Smith he said, "There was talk of keeping her sedated indefinitely—" he held up a hand to cut off the Doctor's protest, "—but I argued against that. However, considering what she's done and what she's capable of, I can't guarantee that my word on the matter will carry much weight."

Doctor Smith crossed her arms, though it looked more like she was embracing herself, searching for some kind of comfort, compared to Commander Ford's no-nonsense, all-business posture.

"There's not a lot else that can be done with someone like her," the Commander added, shaking his head, giving the sedated woman a brief glance over his shoulder. "Prison, even maximum security, is out of the question. What else does that leave us?"

"We could give them aliens a call, see if they wanna take her off our hands." Tony propped his elbow on the closest flat surface, which just so happened to be the small table beside O'Neill's bed. He went on to lean his head against his balled fist, and even though the angle wasn't particularly comfortable he still felt as though he could fall right to sleep if given the opportunity.

"Funny, Tony." Lucas didn't sound amused. Not in the slightest.

"Even if that was an option," Bridger said, "I wouldn't be willing to subject any potential allies to that sort of trouble."

"There's no way to—" O'Neill cut himself off, his face screwed up just enough to give away that he was struggling to find the words he wanted to use. "Shut it off? Her powers, I mean."

Tony couldn't help himself, even if he wasn't setting out to give the other man a hard time. "What, like an off switch?"

"Well, no." O'Neill sounded frustrated.

"Not that I'm aware of," Doctor Smith interjected, before the two could start a real pointless back and forth. "But it's possible that General McGath's specialists might know something that I don't."

Bridger looked at her. "But you don't sound happy about the possibility."

"Should I?" She raised her brows, and then shook her head, letting out a long breath. "It's just the idea that someone out there might have some way to deactivate a psychic's powers, potentially without their consent—" By way of conclusion she hugged her arms around herself that little bit tighter and shuddered visibly.

"No one would do it to someone without their consent," Ford said, though he sounded unconvinced. "Surely."

Tony took his head off his hand. "Maybe you wanna talk to Ortiz about consent before you say that, Commander." Taking his elbow from the edge of the table, he added, "Once he wakes up, that is."


The oppressive, all-consuming dark had prevailed once again, smothering and swallowing everything and leaving it all numb and blank and void. Time lost all meaning, and sensation slipped away, along with any despair or frustration or anger at his progress being stripped out of his grasp right when he was on the verge of something real. It was hours before he came back to any semblance of self but it could have been mere seconds, or a long stretch of years. He had no way of knowing.

At first he didn't know what it was that had brought him back out of that oblivion, leaving him lying, without any desire or motivation to move, looking up into nothing at all. Nothing above, nothing below, nothing around him at all. No sound, no smell, no—wait.

The faintest frown creased his brow and he strained to listen, going so far as to close his eyes in order to give his ears more of his focus to work with. For a while he lay there, listening for what seemed to be nothing at all, until the faintest flicker of something reached him from out of the black. Miguel kept his eyes closed, listening again, listening still, breath held and every fibre of his being tensing in anticipation.

"Hey, Miguel."

A laugh tumbled freely, almost desperately, from his parted lips and he opened his eyes, realising after a few moments that his vision was blurred by tears. Relief? Possibly. Whatever had caused them didn't matter, as he rolled over, first onto his side and then his front, hands down to the ground in order to push himself up, up, and further still until he was rising from his knees all the way to his feet.

Once up he listened again, waiting. He closed his eyes, and continued to listen. Waiting. Waiting and hoping.

"You just—you really need to wake up."

Another one of those breathless laughs spilled out of him and his knees went weak for a moment, just a moment, before he scrubbed his hands over his face and pushed his hair back from his brow. For a few seconds he held it back, fingers raked into it, drawing in a breath, before he turned and looked to the distance. Into the black. As he stood there with his hands pushed into his hair he recalled what he had seen there, growing closer and closer as he had drawn nearer and nearer. He recalled the size and the shape of it, the colour and the texture he had been able to make out as he had approached it. He recalled the way the light, spilling from some unseen and unknown source, had gleamed off the polished brass of the handle.

And then there it was again, simply appearing out of the black as if carried on some sort of mist or smoke, drifting and fading into being out of nothing at all.

Miguel slid his hands from his hair, for a moment barely daring to believe what he was seeing before he heard those words going through his mind once again. You really need to wake up.

They were right. He did.

And that was exactly what he was going to do.


Piccolo's comment about consent had taken all the air out of the room, it had felt like, and their somewhat unconventional meeting had broken up shortly thereafter. On the one hand Tim had been glad. All the discussion about what-ifs and other vague but far from promising possibilities had started to sour his stomach and by the time everyone had started to filter out he wouldn't have been surprised to find out that he had paled by a few shades.

The idea of that woman back on the loose was sickening, to say the least. And the idea that Miguel might never recover from what had been done to him by that very same woman? Tim didn't have the words for how that made him feel.

With the Captain and everyone else gone from the room Doctor Smith had made one last check of vitals and whatever else she was keeping an eye on with her patients before excusing herself. Tim had wondered if she was going to get some rest for herself, something she had recommended for everyone else, but something told him he would be seeing her again before long. She had probably gone to get something to eat, or, failing that, something to drink at the very least.

That meant Tim was alone. Or, more to the point, he was the only one awake.

Moving wasn't really recommended yet, he had been told, but after checking what he was attached to and just how mobile said attachments were he wondered what the harm could possibly be. So long as he was careful, and wasn't up and about for long, surely he would be okay. He had gotten through the worst of it, after all, and in the grand scheme of things he had gotten off relatively lightly. It was possible no one else would see it that way, he knew. Being stabbed was hardly something that most would consider light or mild, but in Tim's mind that was how he saw it, at least compared to what Miguel had gone through. And then there was Jim, who had certainly looked better.

Getting out of the bed was actually a fairly easy task, once he figured out how not to tug or knock his IV pole over, and once he was on his feet, thankful for the simple slippers that had been set down beside the bed, he made his way cautiously and quietly across the room. Subconsciously, a little nervously, he adjusted his glasses as he did so, looking around the room once he reached the bedside he had been intending to visit.

His friend looked paler than normal, a fact made that much plainer by the discolouration of bruising across his face. It was worse on the left side of his face, especially down low around his jaw and the bottom of his cheekbone, and Tim frowned, recalling what Doctor Smith had said about the fracture. It could have been worse, they all knew that, but Tim found it difficult standing there at the side of the bed to feel anything other than miserable and concerned. This man was his closest friend, someone who had started out as a colleague, a crewmate, but had become so much more than that over the time that they had served together aboard seaQuest. It was difficult, to say the least, to see him like that, and to know what he had been made to go through.

"Hey." All things considered it felt like such an absurd thing to say, pointless perhaps, and it didn't really make him feel better but Tim wasn't doing it for his own benefit. Doctor Smith had admitted that she didn't know exactly what was going on, or how to fix it, but she had said that she believed Miguel's consciousness was trying to resurface. Surely talking to him couldn't do any harm. So he said again, with a little more conviction, "Hey, Miguel." He felt less absurd that time. Much less, actually. "I know you probably can't hear me," he went on, finding that once he had really started it was actually easier to keep going than it was to just stop, "but I wanted to give this a try. I wanted to try something, I mean. I haven't been able to do anything else so far, and, well—" He cut himself off. Now wasn't the time for self-deprecation. It was the sort of thing that Miguel would normally pull him up on, certainly, but in that moment it didn't feel like the right path to take. It felt selfish, and this wasn't about him.

"Anyway." He paused to clear his throat. "We're all worried about you. And we miss you." It was the sort of thing that some of the others on board, namely the hard-core military types, would see as unnecessarily soft or emotional or something else along those lines but Tim had never seen anything particularly wrong with sentiment. There was a time and a place for it. That was all. "It's not the same around here without you." He tried for a smile but it didn't feel very convincing. Far from it, actually. Adjusting his grip on the IV pole at his side he frowned and looked around the room, before settling his gaze once again on the face of his friend. "You just—" He had to take a moment to find a way around the sudden lump that had formed in his throat, one that had snuck up on him out of nowhere. "You really need to wake up."

He needed to get back to his own bed, he knew, and standing there with what he had said hanging in the air, seemingly unheard, he realised he was all out of things to say. So he would head back to bed, where he really ought to be by the time Doctor Smith returned from whatever errand she was running, but one last compulsion overcame him. Much like the words that had spilled out of him he found it was a compulsion that he just couldn't deny, and so he allowed himself to raised one hand and set it down on top of Miguel's where it rested on the bed at his side.

Tim was just about to turn and walk away when the faintest movement froze him in place, rooting him to the spot. He stood there, staring, not daring to believe it and more than halfway towards convincing himself it had been his imagination when it happened again.

Miguel's hand was moving.