Shattered Crystal
Jack O'Neill stepped out of the wormhole and turned to watch as it shut down, the iris sliding into place. He gave a brief shrug of his shoulders and spun on his heels, meeting the eyes of his reception committee with a twist of his lips.
"How did it go, Colonel?" The Texan drawl of General Hammond belied the underlying command for information implicit in the question.
"Fine, sir. The thing morphed back into a crystal as soon as we hit the ground on the other side It's sitting a metre to the left of the gate, looking as innocent as..." he stopped and considered, "Well...as blue glass can." His normal exuberance was missing, and his team exchanged concerned looks. After a pause where it became obvious that the Colonel wasn't going to say anything else, the General spoke again.
"Okay, son. Get yourself to the infirmary and we'll hold the debriefing in an hour." With a nod of dismissal Hammond returned to the control room, not waiting to watch his premier team leave the vast and almost empty space.
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"I'll compare these blood samples with those we took when you first returned from the planet, Colonel." Doctor Fraiser handed the ampoules to the waiting nurse and removed her gloves, throwing them into the nearby bin. "Now, I understand you were hit by some discharge from the crystal being in the hospital." She stared at him until he reluctantly nodded. "I'll need to run another full set of tests and make sure there are no adverse effects." She ignored the disgruntled mutter from the man in front of her. "How are you feeling? Any problems I should be aware of?"
"No, Doc, nothing worth mentioning." The Colonel moved restlessly on the bed, his foot tapping against the metal of its frame.
Janet gave him a quizzical look, her hand already out and grabbing for his wrist. "Everything is worth mentioning, sir, at least to me."
"It's just a headache." Jack moved his arm, pulling his wrist from her grasp. "And before you ask, it's a two on the pain scale. Like I said, not worth mentioning." He grimaced as her hand snaked forward and took his wrist once more, her fingers pressing against the pulse point.
She released it with a frown, pulling her penlight from her pocket and shining it in his eyes before he could protest.
"Ouch! God damn it, Doc. Give a guy some warning, why don't ya!" Jack shut his eyes, squeezing them tight, his right hand up, rubbing his forehead. "I hope you're happy. That two has just turned into a four."
"Hold still, sir." Machines were attached and spitting out readings before he even knew what was happening. "Your blood pressure is very high."
"It's just a headache, Doc. Give me some pills if you must, but it isn't anything to worry about. I just bumped my head when I hit the floor."
Janet probed the back of the Colonels' head, searching for any sign of injury. "Let me see."
"Oh, for crying out loud! I only told you about it to explain the headache. Will you stop with the fussing, I'm fine."
"I'll be the judge of that, Colonel O'Neill." The doctor stood and glared at her superior officer, ignoring his obviously rising temper, while making notations on the chart she had picked up from the end of the bed. "Given these readings, I'm going to order you to remain in the infirmary for an observation period of twenty-four hours. I'll inform the General of my decision and that the briefing will have to be delayed."
Jack stood as well, his over six foot frame towering over the woman. "I said I was okay. I'll stay in my quarters tonight, if that makes you feel better." He spoke firmly, making his opinion plain to anyone who heard.
The doctor stood her ground, one hand on her hip, the other clutching the chart in tight fingers. "It doesn't make me feel better in the slightest, Colonel. You will be staying here tonight." At the look on his face, she continued. "Is that clear?"
For a moment the two looked at each other, the battle of wills obvious, then the Colonel's eyes darkened, and his face cleared of all emotion. His voice, when it answered Janet, was dull and cold.
"Yes, Doctor Fraiser, it's clear." Jack folded himself back onto the bed. "You don't need to yell."
Janet softened her tone, in response to his obvious pain. "I'm not yelling, sir."
"Sure sounds like you are." His hand was back, massaging the bridge of his nose, and his eyes were shut. "Can you give me something for this damned headache now?"
Janet stopped, her mouth open, her surprise obvious. "What is it on the scale now, Colonel?"
"About a seven."
"That confirms it. I'll have a nurse bring you some painkillers, and I want you to rest. No visitors, no distractions, while I organise those tests I spoke about. Alright, sir?"
His answer was pained and distant. "Yeah, whatever. I'll be here."
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Jack lay, his face turned into the pillow. He wasn't comfortable. The infirmary beds were too firm, the pillows too low, and the sheets too...well...white. The tablet he had taken earlier had only succeeding in making him drowsy enough to resent being disturbed by the battery of tests the doctor had ordered. Now, MRI just finished, he was finally back in bed, feeling like every single part of his body was yelling at him for allowing this to happen.
Behind his closed lids, he replayed the events of the past day. The shearing heat of the crystal's energy throwing him back several feet onto the sharpness of the strange yellow ground. Waking to find himself alone, left behind by his team, unarmed and completely vulnerable. The anger and frustration as he submitted to the indignity of being locked up when he returned to his own base, the walls of the small cell closing in, reminding him that he was a prisoner once again. The pain growing behind his eyes as he listened to all the speculation from his teammates. The ache only increasing in intensity when he saw himself on the tape walking down the ramp as if he belonged. And finally, the agony rising to a crescendo when he realised what was being said, the phone in his hand before he had even known he had moved from where he had been sitting.
Then the hospital. Hitting the cabinet, his head throbbing, the energy visible in the air. The wounded expression in his own eyes, eyes that saw so much more than he had.
The small hand reaching out and tearing his soul in two.
He flinched from the images in his pounding head. He needed to get away from here, the echoes of presence, and the confining concrete.
He had to leave.
He was up, into the locker room, dressed, and out of the mountain before his memory caught up with his actions. When it did, he headed straight for the nearest bar
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Chris Bentley had seen a lot of hard drinking in his time as the bar manager at The Three Doors, but the tall man in the far corner was beating the other contenders for the crown hands down. It was a busy night, the place packed with staff from Peterson and the Academy, the noise level beginning to hurt even his dulled hearing. Normally he would have warned the guy, slowed down his drinks, and made sure he went on his way, but tonight he was too busy to be bothered babysitting someone who looked old enough to know better.
The scuffle wasn't anything unusual in The Three Doors, however the protagonists were. It was with a feeling of inevitability that Chris hurried towards the shouts, expecting a drunken brawl. What he saw was quite different. A burley young man was being helped to his feet by friends, his nose bleeding and battered. Another man was on his back, the drunk standing over him, hand held rigidly, ready to strike. It was only Chris's shout that stopped its downward arc. For a second everything seemed to freeze, then the man stepped back and reached into the pocket of his black trousers.
"Here." Some notes were thrown on the table amongst the shattered glasses littering its top. "This should cover my tab, plus the damages." And with those few brief words the brown haired man pushed his way through the crowds, staggering only slightly as he headed for the door.
"Hey! Aren't you going to do anything? He attacked us." Chris turned to see the young, sandy haired man had managed to get up off the floor. He pushed his face belligerently into Chris's. "Walt bumped him, that's all."
Chris ignored him, beckoning to a waiter to clear the mess, before turning back. "It's not my problem. He's paid for the glasses."
"So what! He didn't pay for Walt's broken nose." The man looked around for support, wordlessly appealing to the group he had come in to the bar with. His friends were backing the young man and their tempers were rising. "Well, he's not going to get away with it." There was muttered agreement. "Come on, he can't have gotten far." And the pack moved off, the scent of battle egging them on.
"Shit!" In all conscience Chris couldn't leave the older man to defend himself against so many. He returned to the bar, grabbing the phone and tapping in the numbers to reach the Peterson Base MPs. He had caught a glimpse of dog tags hanging around the drunk's neck, and knew the MPs would arrive faster than the civilian police. A quick explanation and he hung up, his duty done, the incident already receding from his mind as he spotted another potential problem group of drinkers by the pool table.
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"Hey, you!"
Jack heard the shout, but continued on his way through the parking lot. He had no intention of driving, he knew he'd had far too much to be safe on the road, but he wanted his jacket from his truck. It would take a while to find a cab at this time of night, and there was a cold breeze blowing. He had thrown his wallet in the glove box before he entered the bar, taking only enough cash to see him through the evening, and he wasn't going to leave that in the car all night either.
He had almost reached his vehicle when another much closer call finally had him spinning to face the source of the voice.
"You bastard. You're not going to get away with that."
Despite the amount of alcohol Jack had consumed over the course of the evening, he knew danger when he heard it and reacted accordingly, his hands already up, his weight balanced on one foot, the other lightly touching the ground, poised to move.
That annoying, loud, obnoxious group of young men had totally pissed him off with their inane comments, designed to be heard by everyone in the vicinity of their table. His headache had grown to mammoth proportions, and Jack had been well aware that he was being unbelievably stupid by not going back to the infirmary. Instead of doing the sensible thing he had just sat there, brooding. The elbow jostling his arm, making his drink slop over the edge of the glass and onto his shirtsleeve, was the final straw. He hadn't even gotten an apology, and when he raised his eyes to meet the other man's, the dismissive grin had him seeing red.
The group moved closer, and Jack, counting six men, all in peak physical condition and at least twenty years younger than him, knew he was in serious trouble.
"Come on, you don't really want to do this, do you?" He tried to inject a conciliatory note into his voice, but knew he had failed miserably when the answer came in the form of laughter, and they converged on him.
The first attacker fell to a sideways kick, the second to a punch, and the rest backed off. The ferocity of the older man's defence had stunned them all, except perhaps for their leader. He had waited, standing back to see the result of his friends' attack. He had already tangled with this man once, had come off second best, and clearly wasn't in a hurry for a rematch.
The remaining four circled Jack, looking for weakness and seeing none.
"Give it up, boys. It isn't worth the aggravation." Jack tried one more time to reason with them. The effect of the alcohol, combined with his already aching head, was starting to kick in, and his vision was beginning to blur. He shut his eyes for a second, knowing the risk, thinking his eyesight might clear, but the result wasn't what he had hoped. In the split second he had before the first fist landed he knew nothing had changed, so he lashed out instinctively, connecting solidly with what felt like a stomach. A muffled yelp told Jack he had been successful, and then there was shouting and running footsteps. Hands grabbed at him at the same time as he took a hit to his side, and he tried to retaliate, only to find both hands pulled behind his back accompanied by the unmistakable sound and feel of handcuffs locking around his wrists.
Jack stopped struggling and shook his head, lowering it, before closing his eyes, his head spinning.
"Come on, get him in the car."
"Give him a minute. I don't want to be cleaning it if he's going to throw up."
Jack raised his head and opened his eyes. The blurs resolved themselves slowly into the shapes of two uniformed Air Force personnel – MP's – probably from Peterson. He glanced around as the sound of a reeving car engine filled the air.
"Leave it." He turned his head back to see the MP holding his arms halting the other in the process of getting in an Air Force car. "We couldn't catch them now anyway, and I don't think they were military. We've got enough to deal with with this one."
The hand moved, pushing him forward and down into the back seat of the vehicle, the door open and waiting. He settled back as comfortably as he could with his hands in such an unnatural position and shut his eyes again, blocking out the voices.
What had happened finally registered in his mind, and he allowed himself a brief internal laugh of derision. He had gone AWOL from the infirmary, gotten drunker than he had in years, beaten up some civilians, and been arrested by MP's.
He sighed deeply.
This was just peachy.
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