Chapter 2: Things Turn Slightly Atypical

"Well, General," Janet Frasier began, "they are who they say they are. The blood-work proves it."

"Which is what we've been trying to tell you," groaned the 20-year-old sitting on the bed closest to General Hammond and Frasier. "Not that I'm surprised at the eagerness to poke us full of holes."

Hammond just heaved a slow sigh, shaking his head almost imperceptibly at Colonel Jack O'Neill. Indeed, stranger things had happened to the team – seemed it often did, really. The situation had been thoroughly explained to him in the informal circumstances, described in different words by each of the team members: to O'Neill, it was an unpleasant surprise he didn't understand. Carter was wondering about the scientific implications of the artifact that had done this to them. Dr. Jackson had articulated theories about eternal youth and rituals, and Teal'c had stressed his surprise the Goa'uld had not apparently made use of this technology. He let his gaze sweep over the four of them.

"From all appearances, the entirety of the SG-1 team has regressed about 25 years," Dr. Frasier was saying, and indeed that appeared to be the case. O'Neill's form, which was usually that of a somewhat lanky man who had filled his frame out with the years, had lost his adult build and appeared to be just barely out of adolescence. By this time of the day he would usually have a five-o'clock shadow, but he had only the barest of stubble on his chin. His hair was still short and sticking up wildly, but had gone reddish-blonde. But his demeanor hadn't changed in the least; he shot Hammond a slightly challenging look, as if daring the General to contradict his claimed identity.

The rest of the team was in similar states. Major Samantha Carter appeared to be at the other end of the adolescent spectrum; she was drowned in her black t-shirt, her figure and bust underdeveloped. Her hair hadn't changed much, except the blond was more pronounced, and her arms and legs were long and thin. She kept glancing up and down between her interlaced fingers and the General, occasionally glancing at the back of O'Neill's head.

Doctor Daniel Jackson was even younger than the Major, a waif not even fitting the smallest BDUs on base. His hair was bleached as blond as Carter's; his glasses, unfortunately too big for his face, were laid beside him on the bed. He was fiddling with the end of his t-shirt, his lips formed into a familiar pout and his eyebrows raised thoughtfully as he watched the General for his response.

Teal'c was the least changed of the four, as the loss of twenty-five years of his life had not taken him back into his developing years. His bulk was less than it had been before, but his dark eyes stared out impassively from under the same gold tattoo; his forehead seemed somewhat pinched from it, however. He seemed calm, almost indifferent; he raised an eyebrow when Hammond met his gaze, but nodded slightly in deferment to his judgment.

"What are the implications here, doctor?" Hammond asked after a moment's consideration.

"They all seem to have maintained their mature neurological patterns," Frasier explained. "This means they have all retained all their knowledge despite their physiological regression. I can't say the same for their chemical and hormonal balances, which have returned to normal levels for their apparent ages." She shook her head, glancing over at O'Neill, who looked unimpressed. "I can't say for sure what the implications of that sort of a change will be. There are rare cases of people who have a disorder that prevents physical progression beyond a certain age; I can study up on those cases and make predictions based on those scenarios, but there's no guarantee the results will be accurate."

"Doctor," Daniel piped up, startling Hammond a bit. Dr. Jackson's voice hadn't broken yet. "I'm curious about something. Teal'c didn't become First Prime of Apophis until about 20 years ago, so how come he still has his gold tattoo? It looked pinched, and that's explained by the physical differences, but—"

"I see what you're getting at, Daniel," Frasier acknowledged, interrupting him gently. "Any changes you have made to your body over the past quarter-century that are not regulated by your DNA will not have disappeared. For instance, Daniel, your haircut hasn't changed. You didn't keep it that short when you were young, did you?"

Daniel considered this, running a hand over his cropped hair. "No . . . kind of had a bowl cut most of my life," he answered, a smile twitching across his face. "Okay, I think I get it."

"Did we lose any immunities we developed over those years?" Carter asked, looking genuinely curious rather than worried.

"I don't believe so, but it'll take a few extra tests to be sure," the doctor answered.

"Well, doctor, what's the final word on the matter?" Hammond asked.

Dr. Frasier shrugged, seemingly at a loss. "Other than their obvious . . . condition, I can give SG-1 a clean bill of health. Although I'd like to keep an eye on them." She didn't seem exactly happy about it, although her expression showed more confusion than concern.

"I see." Hammond looked over the three youngsters and the Jaffa, considering his options. They weren't many. Daniel would almost certainly want to go back and take another look at the ruins; Samantha Carter would probably express similar interests. Actually, he rather expected the entire team would want to return to the planet, given their usual reactions to these sorts of changes. Therefore, the General decided to immediately lay a ground rule. "For the time being, all four of you are confined to this base. Doctor, how often do you need to see them?"

"I can't be sure. Have them check back with me in 24 hours," Frasier recommended.

"Very well. I'm considering SG-1 under the influence of alien technology. You can continue your on-world duties to . . . to the best of your abilities," he decided, allowing especially for the state of Carter and Daniel. Dr. Frasier, your first priority is to investigate a way to reverse the process."

"With all due respect, sir, the answer might be in the ruins themselves." It was Daniel again, although he was shooting sideways glances at Jack. Jack was raising his eyebrows incredulously. "And before Jack tells me we can't go back for now, I do have tapes, but if they don't render anything of use, I'd like to go back to P4C-723 to take a second look."

"Sir, I agree with Daniel, but with reservations," the Major said now. She had hopped to her feet, and it was slightly comical to see her standing at attention in that body. "Given that the technology has reversed our age by as much as 25 years, a second activation could be disastrous. However, I think there's a good chance the artifact can somehow be reactivated to have the opposite effect – but I can't be certain without looking at it myself."

"Oh for crying out loud!" Jack half-shook his head in a familiar gesture, and Hammond was impressed the Colonel had been silent for as long as he had. "The General's right, we should stay on base for now. I really, really don't want to get zapped out of existence," he said, shooting a glance at Daniel. Daniel returned the look with open irritation. "And I don't want you to get zapped out of existence. Just … let's see what's on the tapes before we go risk our necks on some ancient civilization's idea of a practical joke."

"I concur with O'Neill," Teal'c said with calm assurance. "There may yet be a way in which Doctor Frasier may help us, as well."

"In any case, that's my final word on the subject for the time being," Hammond spoke as Teal'c finished, making it clear that his decision was not to be overruled. "I'll reassess the situation based on your findings, Dr. Jackson, and yours, Dr. Frasier. SG-1, you're dismissed. And take care. I'll make sure the security checkpoints are notified of your . . . condition."

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The arrangements were made for SG-1 to sleep on base; Teal'c left to perform Kel'no'reem, and Daniel joined him for the evening, trotting off after him like a child following a favorite uncle. Jack grumped around the base, pestered Carter in her lab for a little while, then disappeared to the commissary for dinner.

Being younger had its advantages; although Janet said that the knee damage wasn't truly undone, the pain was almost unnoticeable, and something indefinable had him wide awake late into the night. Around 11 o'clock, after tossing about in the ridiculously oversized VIP beds provided on base, Jack finally went looking for Daniel. He wasn't in his own bedroom; in fact, the queen-sized bed hadn't even been disturbed, which meant he would probably be found in only one place.

Jack poked his head into Daniel's office ten minutes later – and the sight was, sadly, comical. Daniel was curled up in his desk chair, in which he fit comfortably on a normal day, but today he looked like a kid trying out his father's seat for size. His legs were drawn up to his chest and one arm was wrapped around them; his other hand rested on a pad of paper with a pen clutched in small fingers, the TV remote merely inches away. He was avidly watching the footage he had taken on P4C-723 from behind glasses slowly slipping down his nose, his pen flashing across the legal pad occasionally, jotting notes. "Hey, Daniel."

Daniel jumped a little and looked up, craning his neck around. "Jack." He paused the video and reached for a cup of coffee on the desk, which he had to handle with two hands. "What is it?"

"Just wanted to poke my head in, see if you were making any progress." Jack meandered inside, fingering a death mask labeled 'P3X-811'. He hoped Daniel wasn't going to need it any time soon, since it was currently considerably out of his reach.

"Don't touch that. And no, not really." Daniel put down the mug carefully and pushed his glasses back up his small nose before he picked up his pen, fiddling with it. "The writing is pretty much a derivation of Greek, but there's goa'uld on these other panels. The Greek tells a tale of the search for eternal youth and beauty . . ." Daniel trailed off, flipping through his notes. "'And yea, the men rejoiced, and yea, the women rejoiced, for the light fell upon them and the years were shed like snakes shed their skin,' et cetera . . ." he waved his hand in a circle, indicating an ongoing passage. "That's a pretty loose translation, though, since I don't have a full handle on the dialect."

"'Snakes shed their skin'. Nice imagery," Jack snorted, leaning on the doorframe with his arms crossed.

"Yeah, and not exactly coincidental. The goa'uld text indicates three comings of their God that I've documented so far." Daniel rubbed his eyes and reached for his coffee again. "Each time he came in a different shape: a beautiful man, then a beautiful woman, and again as an old man. It's hard to tell how far apart these visits were, although the documentation of the first and second visit is significantly older than the third, simply judging by the visible wear on the stone."

"Got a name for the snakehead?"

"Not yet. The text refers to him only as 'your god', 'our god', and the like. It's got to be there somewhere, though." Daniel drained his cup and eyed the bottom of the mug as if offended to find it there. "On top of that, I'm presuming the goa'uld didn't come back any time after the device was completed. If the device is completely successful – which it seems to be – then any goa'uld that got their hands on that technology would almost certainly desert the sarcophagus – or only use it for emergencies – in favor of this artifact. Unless it only works once, or it interferes with the sarcophagus' healing abilities . . ." Daniel trailed off, looking overwhelmed by the possibilities. "I'm having a hard time concentrating, though."

"Of course you are, Danny," Jack grinned when Daniel lifted his gaze, his mouth slightly open in his 'fish out of water' look. "You're nine years old. It's eleven o'clock. And how much caffeine have you pumped into your body?"

Daniel gave him a considering look, then glanced away, closing his mouth and frowning a little. "Probably too much," he acknowledged, putting down the mug.

"Go to bed," Jack instructed, not unkindly. "Get some sleep. Everything will be waiting for you in the morning, and it's not like we're going anywhere."

"I guess." Daniel sounded like a grudging child, and Jack felt a small pang of sadness. For a moment, this child-sized version of Daniel looked almost identical to Charlie. He turned off the power on the television and slid out of his chair, going to the coffee maker against the far wall and stretching up to turn that off as well.

"How'd you fill that thing?" Jack asked as Daniel crossed in front of him and out of the office.

"What thing? The – oh, the coffee maker?" grinned Daniel. "I pulled up my chair and stood on it."

"Clever," Jack agreed, switching off the lights and following him. Daniel was moving at a trot, which let Jack follow him with long, steady strides. "Could've asked me to come down, I wasn't doing anything."

"And wait for you to meander your way to my office? Forget it," Daniel snorted, although the last words were stifled by a yawn. "Ugh. Need a bed. Night, Jack." He turned down a different hall, going to his designated room.

Jack stifled the ridiculous desire to follow him and tuck him into bed, and wandered off again in search of something to read until his own body was ready for sleep.

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