TITLE: Nevermore
AUTHOR: Ynette
DATE: August 12, 2002
CATEGORY: AU, Action/Adventure, Drama
SPOILERS: Shades of Grey and Crystal Skull.
SEASON/SEQUEL INFO: The story takes its AU twist towards the end of the fourth season
RATING: PG-13, with one scene that might call for an R rating. I'll label that when it comes.
STATUS: Complete.
WARNINGS: Some violence, some language.
SUMMARY: The death of an important member of the SGC leads to drastic changes for all.
DISCLAIMER: Stargate SG-1 and its characters are the property of Showtime/ Viacom, MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, and Gekko Productions. We have written this story for entertainment purposes only and no money whatsoever has exchanged hands. No copyright infringement is intended. The original characters, situations, and story are the property of the authors. Not to be archived without permission of the authors.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is a future story, which means that it has to be AU. You've been warned... G Many thanks go to my beta, Katherine, for catching the inconsistencies I was way too tired to catch myself. The final revision was done just today, so any and all mistakes are mine alone. Enjoy!
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted- nevermore!
Excerpt from The Raven, written by Edgar Alan Poe
Prologue: The Beginning of the End
He desperately fought for consciousness, knowing that it was important to be awake. He didn't know why, he just knew it mattered. With great effort, he managed to pry open first one eye and then the other, and found himself starting at the legs of an antique coffee table. There was a porcelain doll sitting on the floor by the wall opposite him, staring at him as if she knew something he didn't. He frowned and turned his head slightly, wincing as a sharp pain invaded his skull. He closed his eyes until the pain became bearable.
"What a headache," he muttered and slowly opened his eyes again. He couldn't remember what had happened to give him such a headache, though. It felt almost like the headache associated with a hangover, but he knew he hadn't been drinking.
He brought a hand up to touch his throbbing head, but snatched it quickly away when he realized that there was something wet on it. He moved the hand close to his eyes and examined it. He gasped and quickly sat up beside the coffee table when he realized that the sticky wetness on his hand was blood. He brought his other hand up to his face and saw that it, too, was covered in blood. Whatever was wrong with him, it certainly wasn't a hangover.
He looked up from his hands to study his surroundings, confusion and fear both fighting for supremacy in his mind. He found himself in a well- decorated, cozy living room. It was the middle of the afternoon and the light from the sun accented the gold, brown and cream colors of the comfortable sofas and throw pillows scattered throughout. The light also served to bring to life the multitude of pictures that adorned the walls, and every other available surface, of the living room. The various pictures depicted a young and happy couple, two little girls at various states of childhood, and a distinguished looking older man in a military uniform. For a moment, he couldn't remember where he was or what he was doing there, but as soon as he saw the pictures, he remembered.
He got up, careful not to touch anything in the living room. He didn't want to get his blood on the beautiful sofas, so he kept his hands close to himself at all times. He did a quick check of his body to see if he could identify the source of the blood, but other than the headache, there was nothing wrong with him. Nothing that was bleeding, at least. He frowned, but continued to walk the perimeter of the living room.
When he reached the area behind the desk that was situated in front of the bay windows, he stopped dead in his tracks. On the floor, in front of the desk, was the edge of a puddle. A stray ray of sunshine reached through the window and fell on the puddle, illuminating the brownish liquid and making it look like the bright red it was supposed to be, leaving no doubt about what he was looking at . He followed the puddle until he found the source of the blood and found himself looking at an older, bald man. The man was lying on his back, his face battered, his navy blue slacks and white, cotton shirt saturated with blood.
Immediately, he made his way over to the fallen man, careful not to step in the puddle of blood. There was no doubt in his mind about who the man on the floor was, which made his heart beat faster with fear and apprehension. He kneeled beside the man and reached down to the throat, hoping to find a pulse. After a few seconds and several tries, he realized that there wasn't going to be one. He looked around for a possible intruder, but found no signs of forced entry. He did find something else, though. There, beside the fallen man, was a heavy, metal vase. It was covered in blood and what looked like hand prints. It was as if someone had gripped the vase and used it to strike something. With a growing sense of horror, he returned his gaze to the battered body of the man on the floor and knew what had killed him. His gaze traveled away from the man and landed on his hands, which were resting on his lap. He flexed his fingers, the blood staining them shimmering in the sun.
"No. Oh, God, no." he whispered.
He narrowed his eyes and tried to remember what had happened before he had woken up, but everything was a blank. He couldn't remember what he'd come to the house to do, or what he and the man had been talking about. Something had happened, and he had to find out what it was. He looked around desperately, but didn't see or hear anyone else in the house.
He spotted a pristine, white telephone on one of the antique end tables and immediately dialed the police, knowing for sure that they'd get to the bottom of whatever had happened. They had to, because whoever had committed the murder had to be caught and brought to justice.
He waited by the phone until he heard the wail of the police sirens outside of the house. When the police arrived, they entered the house quickly, and he got up to meet them.
He was about to say something to the officer in front of him, when he saw the man take out his gun and point it at him.
"Hold it right there. Put your hands up, behind your head."
The two officers who followed saw the scene and immediately drew and pointed their own guns at him.
He complied with the officer's wishes, simply because he didn't want to get shot. They hadn't given him a chance to say anything, but he was sure that they'd be willing to listen to him once he explained what he'd seen. He saw a few more officers enter the house and make their way towards the body.
"What happened here?" the first officer asked.
"He's dead. I found him like that and called the police," he replied, his voice shaking slightly. He turned to walk over to where the man lay, when the officer's voice stopped him.
"You're not going anywhere, mister. Now tell us, what happened? What did you do?"
"I didn't do anything. I found him like that, I told you," he said, his voice raised a bit.
The officer's attention was drawn towards the body by another officer. He left for a minute, and then returned to address him.
"Show me your hands."
He frowned at the request, but held out his hands.
"You sick, son of a bitch. Cuff him," the officer said.
"What?" he asked, his voice betraying the apprehension and confusion he was feeling. Suddenly, understanding dawned on him as he saw the look on the officer's face. "You think I did this, don't you? You think I killed him?"
Two officers grabbed him and cuffed him, and then proceeded to drag him unceremoniously through the living room. One officer read him his rights, but he hardly listened to the man. His attention was drawn to the mirror on the wall next to the fireplace and he dug in his heels to stop the police officer from dragging him outside. Instead, he focused on the mirror, which currently showed his reflection. The rumpled, blue shirt he'd been wearing had blood splattered all over it. The khaki pants weren't much better. They sported wide blood stains about the knees and lower legs. His hair was messy and his face was covered in bruises and scratches. The officer's reactions to him made sense now, as did the way they'd been questioning him. "I don't know what happened, but I didn't do it. You have to believe me. I didn't kill him!"
**~~**
"Whoa! Hey, Hacker, wake up! You're going to wake up the entire cell block if you keep this up!" JT shook the man's broad shoulders, knowing that the guards didn't take kindly to early morning interruptions. Today was a very important day for his cellmate and JT didn't want anything spoiling it.
Hacker slowly opened his eyes and wearily looked up at his cellmate.
"You having that dream again?
There was no need to specify what dream he meant.
"Yeah. I guess it's not surprising, considering what's coming up," Hacker answered as he shakily sat up and ran a hand through his short-cropped hair. He wiped the sweat off his face with his thin shirt then allowed himself to meet JT's eyes.
The two men had been cellmates for most of Hacker's stay in prison and had developed a grudging respect for one another. JT was much older than Hacker, but they managed to get along well and kept each other out of trouble when necessary. They watched each other's backs, which in their world could mean the difference between life or death. Hacker spent half of his free time working out, keeping in shape. He was tall, about six feet, and well built. He could hold his own in a fight, though he generally preferred not to involve himself in the petty fights that broke out in prison.
Hacker spent the remainder of his time in front of a computer, hence his name. The man was a computer whiz and could crack pretty much any security system. JT had asked Hacker if he'd always been able to do that with computers, but Hacker had simply said that he'd taken up computers after he'd been in prison for a year with too much time on his hands. The man was brilliant to begin with, and JT had no doubt that Hacker had quickly picked up his new hobby. Because of this new hobby, the general prison population generally left him alone. If any of them ever had a relative on the outside with problems that could be fixed through a computer, they went to Hacker. Hacker would take care of traffic violations and other such things for the inmates, and in exchange, the inmates would mind their own business and leave Hacker to mind his. It was a strange compromise, but it worked.
"Today is the big day, isn't it, your parole hearing, right?"
Hacker shrugged. "I'd hardly consider it a big day. I'm sure that it won't be different from any of my other parole hearings. The son of a bitch Air Force officer always shows up and dissuades the board from granting me parole and the equally useless attorney the state assigned for me is too ignorant to do anything about it. So I wouldn't hold my breath."
JT took a seat on the bunk besides Hacker. He'd been through this a few times before and wished that for once, Hacker got a way out. He knew that the man hadn't belonged in prison to begin with and had done what he could to survive his time there. He didn't know why, but JT didn't think that Hacker had always been the hard-ass he was now. That personality seemed wrong, somehow. That assessment always made JT wonder what Hacker had been like before being convicted of murder in the second degree. Hacker didn't seem like the violent type, even if he could defend himself when necessary. To JT, that had always seemed like a mask that Hacker wore to survive, letting the real man come out only every so often.
"That's the way those things go," JT commented. He had gone through a few parole hearings himself. He, too, was a convicted murderer who had been denied parole many a time. He was old and would probably die in a cell. He didn't want Hacker to suffer the same fate. "Besides, we have poker tonight. It's the big one, you know."
Hacker's face twisted into a smirk. "Oh, yes. I wouldn't want to miss that. Hammer won't know what hit him."
****
He slowly made his way to the room where his parole hearing was to take place. He unconsciously pulled the ridiculously small shirt away from his neck, wincing when the cloth of the suit jacket tightened uncomfortably around his shoulders. No matter how hard he tried, he could never get a suit to fit him.
"Where did you get this thing, Marty, the Salvation Army?"
The attorney shrugged. "It was all I could get. Besides, you won't need it past today."
"Unfortunately for me," he commented as he was led into the room. After the hearing, he would probably be led right back to his cell and the suit would be discarded and not used again.
He could see the members of the parole board seated to his right, obviously examining him to see if he was going to break lose from the cuffs that bound his wrists and feet to jump them. He ignored them, choosing instead to look around the room. He frowned when he realized that the Air Force officer that had been present for the last two hearings to argue against granting him parole was not there. He was about to ask Marty about it when he heard the gavel strike and a male voice speak.
"We are gathered here to address the issue of parole for inmate number 125677-875," the head of the parole board stated as he addressed the prisoner. "It was brought to our attention that the last parole hearing grated to this prisoner was cut short because of some unforeseen circumstances. It is our opinion that there was not enough time spent reviewing the issues involved, and we would like to carefully address those issues today."
He stood at attention in front of the board, willing himself not to show any signs of emotion. He listened to them go over the reasons for his arrest, the evidence presented at his trial, and the sentence that he'd been given. He also listened as they asked the witnesses that were present whether or not they believed he should be granted parole and was surprised to hear one say that she didn't think he was a menace to society. He glanced at the woman who had spoken, recognizing her as one of the prison psychiatrists. She gave him a slight smile as she glanced at him, before returning to her seat.
He was surprised and confused, because the people that generally spoke at his parole hearings had nothing but bad things to say about him. Hacker shook his head and cleared his thoughts. He didn't want anyone present to know how nervous he was, how much he still hoped to get out of the hellhole he found himself in.
He still didn't know what had happened the day of the murder, but not a day went by when he didn't think about it. There was a possibility that he'd done it, that he'd somehow lost his mind and snapped, taking an innocent life in the process. However, he didn't think that was the case. Either way, he wouldn't know for sure if he was guilty or not unless he was given a chance to do some research and investigate what had happened that day. He couldn't do that while locked in prison, which is why he hoped to be let out, to find out once and for all what had happened to him. He shook his head once again when he noticed that the head of the parole board was speaking to him.
"The crime committed was murder, the murder of a two star general of the United States Air Force. The crime was not premeditated, but resulted in a death nonetheless. The State of Colorado found you guilty of this crime twelve years ago and you've served your time ever since. Two years ago we were unwilling to grant you parole, even though your time served had been uneventful. You have shown improvement in character and a willingness to work hard and maintain an atmosphere of peace and tranquility with your inmates. Because of the reasons stated, we are reversing our decision."
He held his breath, not wanting to believe what was coming next.
"Daniel Jackson, you are hereby granted parole, effective today, February 12, 2013."
AUTHOR: Ynette
DATE: August 12, 2002
CATEGORY: AU, Action/Adventure, Drama
SPOILERS: Shades of Grey and Crystal Skull.
SEASON/SEQUEL INFO: The story takes its AU twist towards the end of the fourth season
RATING: PG-13, with one scene that might call for an R rating. I'll label that when it comes.
STATUS: Complete.
WARNINGS: Some violence, some language.
SUMMARY: The death of an important member of the SGC leads to drastic changes for all.
DISCLAIMER: Stargate SG-1 and its characters are the property of Showtime/ Viacom, MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, and Gekko Productions. We have written this story for entertainment purposes only and no money whatsoever has exchanged hands. No copyright infringement is intended. The original characters, situations, and story are the property of the authors. Not to be archived without permission of the authors.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is a future story, which means that it has to be AU. You've been warned... G Many thanks go to my beta, Katherine, for catching the inconsistencies I was way too tired to catch myself. The final revision was done just today, so any and all mistakes are mine alone. Enjoy!
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted- nevermore!
Excerpt from The Raven, written by Edgar Alan Poe
Prologue: The Beginning of the End
He desperately fought for consciousness, knowing that it was important to be awake. He didn't know why, he just knew it mattered. With great effort, he managed to pry open first one eye and then the other, and found himself starting at the legs of an antique coffee table. There was a porcelain doll sitting on the floor by the wall opposite him, staring at him as if she knew something he didn't. He frowned and turned his head slightly, wincing as a sharp pain invaded his skull. He closed his eyes until the pain became bearable.
"What a headache," he muttered and slowly opened his eyes again. He couldn't remember what had happened to give him such a headache, though. It felt almost like the headache associated with a hangover, but he knew he hadn't been drinking.
He brought a hand up to touch his throbbing head, but snatched it quickly away when he realized that there was something wet on it. He moved the hand close to his eyes and examined it. He gasped and quickly sat up beside the coffee table when he realized that the sticky wetness on his hand was blood. He brought his other hand up to his face and saw that it, too, was covered in blood. Whatever was wrong with him, it certainly wasn't a hangover.
He looked up from his hands to study his surroundings, confusion and fear both fighting for supremacy in his mind. He found himself in a well- decorated, cozy living room. It was the middle of the afternoon and the light from the sun accented the gold, brown and cream colors of the comfortable sofas and throw pillows scattered throughout. The light also served to bring to life the multitude of pictures that adorned the walls, and every other available surface, of the living room. The various pictures depicted a young and happy couple, two little girls at various states of childhood, and a distinguished looking older man in a military uniform. For a moment, he couldn't remember where he was or what he was doing there, but as soon as he saw the pictures, he remembered.
He got up, careful not to touch anything in the living room. He didn't want to get his blood on the beautiful sofas, so he kept his hands close to himself at all times. He did a quick check of his body to see if he could identify the source of the blood, but other than the headache, there was nothing wrong with him. Nothing that was bleeding, at least. He frowned, but continued to walk the perimeter of the living room.
When he reached the area behind the desk that was situated in front of the bay windows, he stopped dead in his tracks. On the floor, in front of the desk, was the edge of a puddle. A stray ray of sunshine reached through the window and fell on the puddle, illuminating the brownish liquid and making it look like the bright red it was supposed to be, leaving no doubt about what he was looking at . He followed the puddle until he found the source of the blood and found himself looking at an older, bald man. The man was lying on his back, his face battered, his navy blue slacks and white, cotton shirt saturated with blood.
Immediately, he made his way over to the fallen man, careful not to step in the puddle of blood. There was no doubt in his mind about who the man on the floor was, which made his heart beat faster with fear and apprehension. He kneeled beside the man and reached down to the throat, hoping to find a pulse. After a few seconds and several tries, he realized that there wasn't going to be one. He looked around for a possible intruder, but found no signs of forced entry. He did find something else, though. There, beside the fallen man, was a heavy, metal vase. It was covered in blood and what looked like hand prints. It was as if someone had gripped the vase and used it to strike something. With a growing sense of horror, he returned his gaze to the battered body of the man on the floor and knew what had killed him. His gaze traveled away from the man and landed on his hands, which were resting on his lap. He flexed his fingers, the blood staining them shimmering in the sun.
"No. Oh, God, no." he whispered.
He narrowed his eyes and tried to remember what had happened before he had woken up, but everything was a blank. He couldn't remember what he'd come to the house to do, or what he and the man had been talking about. Something had happened, and he had to find out what it was. He looked around desperately, but didn't see or hear anyone else in the house.
He spotted a pristine, white telephone on one of the antique end tables and immediately dialed the police, knowing for sure that they'd get to the bottom of whatever had happened. They had to, because whoever had committed the murder had to be caught and brought to justice.
He waited by the phone until he heard the wail of the police sirens outside of the house. When the police arrived, they entered the house quickly, and he got up to meet them.
He was about to say something to the officer in front of him, when he saw the man take out his gun and point it at him.
"Hold it right there. Put your hands up, behind your head."
The two officers who followed saw the scene and immediately drew and pointed their own guns at him.
He complied with the officer's wishes, simply because he didn't want to get shot. They hadn't given him a chance to say anything, but he was sure that they'd be willing to listen to him once he explained what he'd seen. He saw a few more officers enter the house and make their way towards the body.
"What happened here?" the first officer asked.
"He's dead. I found him like that and called the police," he replied, his voice shaking slightly. He turned to walk over to where the man lay, when the officer's voice stopped him.
"You're not going anywhere, mister. Now tell us, what happened? What did you do?"
"I didn't do anything. I found him like that, I told you," he said, his voice raised a bit.
The officer's attention was drawn towards the body by another officer. He left for a minute, and then returned to address him.
"Show me your hands."
He frowned at the request, but held out his hands.
"You sick, son of a bitch. Cuff him," the officer said.
"What?" he asked, his voice betraying the apprehension and confusion he was feeling. Suddenly, understanding dawned on him as he saw the look on the officer's face. "You think I did this, don't you? You think I killed him?"
Two officers grabbed him and cuffed him, and then proceeded to drag him unceremoniously through the living room. One officer read him his rights, but he hardly listened to the man. His attention was drawn to the mirror on the wall next to the fireplace and he dug in his heels to stop the police officer from dragging him outside. Instead, he focused on the mirror, which currently showed his reflection. The rumpled, blue shirt he'd been wearing had blood splattered all over it. The khaki pants weren't much better. They sported wide blood stains about the knees and lower legs. His hair was messy and his face was covered in bruises and scratches. The officer's reactions to him made sense now, as did the way they'd been questioning him. "I don't know what happened, but I didn't do it. You have to believe me. I didn't kill him!"
**~~**
"Whoa! Hey, Hacker, wake up! You're going to wake up the entire cell block if you keep this up!" JT shook the man's broad shoulders, knowing that the guards didn't take kindly to early morning interruptions. Today was a very important day for his cellmate and JT didn't want anything spoiling it.
Hacker slowly opened his eyes and wearily looked up at his cellmate.
"You having that dream again?
There was no need to specify what dream he meant.
"Yeah. I guess it's not surprising, considering what's coming up," Hacker answered as he shakily sat up and ran a hand through his short-cropped hair. He wiped the sweat off his face with his thin shirt then allowed himself to meet JT's eyes.
The two men had been cellmates for most of Hacker's stay in prison and had developed a grudging respect for one another. JT was much older than Hacker, but they managed to get along well and kept each other out of trouble when necessary. They watched each other's backs, which in their world could mean the difference between life or death. Hacker spent half of his free time working out, keeping in shape. He was tall, about six feet, and well built. He could hold his own in a fight, though he generally preferred not to involve himself in the petty fights that broke out in prison.
Hacker spent the remainder of his time in front of a computer, hence his name. The man was a computer whiz and could crack pretty much any security system. JT had asked Hacker if he'd always been able to do that with computers, but Hacker had simply said that he'd taken up computers after he'd been in prison for a year with too much time on his hands. The man was brilliant to begin with, and JT had no doubt that Hacker had quickly picked up his new hobby. Because of this new hobby, the general prison population generally left him alone. If any of them ever had a relative on the outside with problems that could be fixed through a computer, they went to Hacker. Hacker would take care of traffic violations and other such things for the inmates, and in exchange, the inmates would mind their own business and leave Hacker to mind his. It was a strange compromise, but it worked.
"Today is the big day, isn't it, your parole hearing, right?"
Hacker shrugged. "I'd hardly consider it a big day. I'm sure that it won't be different from any of my other parole hearings. The son of a bitch Air Force officer always shows up and dissuades the board from granting me parole and the equally useless attorney the state assigned for me is too ignorant to do anything about it. So I wouldn't hold my breath."
JT took a seat on the bunk besides Hacker. He'd been through this a few times before and wished that for once, Hacker got a way out. He knew that the man hadn't belonged in prison to begin with and had done what he could to survive his time there. He didn't know why, but JT didn't think that Hacker had always been the hard-ass he was now. That personality seemed wrong, somehow. That assessment always made JT wonder what Hacker had been like before being convicted of murder in the second degree. Hacker didn't seem like the violent type, even if he could defend himself when necessary. To JT, that had always seemed like a mask that Hacker wore to survive, letting the real man come out only every so often.
"That's the way those things go," JT commented. He had gone through a few parole hearings himself. He, too, was a convicted murderer who had been denied parole many a time. He was old and would probably die in a cell. He didn't want Hacker to suffer the same fate. "Besides, we have poker tonight. It's the big one, you know."
Hacker's face twisted into a smirk. "Oh, yes. I wouldn't want to miss that. Hammer won't know what hit him."
****
He slowly made his way to the room where his parole hearing was to take place. He unconsciously pulled the ridiculously small shirt away from his neck, wincing when the cloth of the suit jacket tightened uncomfortably around his shoulders. No matter how hard he tried, he could never get a suit to fit him.
"Where did you get this thing, Marty, the Salvation Army?"
The attorney shrugged. "It was all I could get. Besides, you won't need it past today."
"Unfortunately for me," he commented as he was led into the room. After the hearing, he would probably be led right back to his cell and the suit would be discarded and not used again.
He could see the members of the parole board seated to his right, obviously examining him to see if he was going to break lose from the cuffs that bound his wrists and feet to jump them. He ignored them, choosing instead to look around the room. He frowned when he realized that the Air Force officer that had been present for the last two hearings to argue against granting him parole was not there. He was about to ask Marty about it when he heard the gavel strike and a male voice speak.
"We are gathered here to address the issue of parole for inmate number 125677-875," the head of the parole board stated as he addressed the prisoner. "It was brought to our attention that the last parole hearing grated to this prisoner was cut short because of some unforeseen circumstances. It is our opinion that there was not enough time spent reviewing the issues involved, and we would like to carefully address those issues today."
He stood at attention in front of the board, willing himself not to show any signs of emotion. He listened to them go over the reasons for his arrest, the evidence presented at his trial, and the sentence that he'd been given. He also listened as they asked the witnesses that were present whether or not they believed he should be granted parole and was surprised to hear one say that she didn't think he was a menace to society. He glanced at the woman who had spoken, recognizing her as one of the prison psychiatrists. She gave him a slight smile as she glanced at him, before returning to her seat.
He was surprised and confused, because the people that generally spoke at his parole hearings had nothing but bad things to say about him. Hacker shook his head and cleared his thoughts. He didn't want anyone present to know how nervous he was, how much he still hoped to get out of the hellhole he found himself in.
He still didn't know what had happened the day of the murder, but not a day went by when he didn't think about it. There was a possibility that he'd done it, that he'd somehow lost his mind and snapped, taking an innocent life in the process. However, he didn't think that was the case. Either way, he wouldn't know for sure if he was guilty or not unless he was given a chance to do some research and investigate what had happened that day. He couldn't do that while locked in prison, which is why he hoped to be let out, to find out once and for all what had happened to him. He shook his head once again when he noticed that the head of the parole board was speaking to him.
"The crime committed was murder, the murder of a two star general of the United States Air Force. The crime was not premeditated, but resulted in a death nonetheless. The State of Colorado found you guilty of this crime twelve years ago and you've served your time ever since. Two years ago we were unwilling to grant you parole, even though your time served had been uneventful. You have shown improvement in character and a willingness to work hard and maintain an atmosphere of peace and tranquility with your inmates. Because of the reasons stated, we are reversing our decision."
He held his breath, not wanting to believe what was coming next.
"Daniel Jackson, you are hereby granted parole, effective today, February 12, 2013."