[Updated 24/08/2017]
- thank you to those who have reviewed thus far, I really appreciate the feedback.
- I forgot to mention in the summary that the story's a mystery focussed mainly on Jack, that, and it has a theme to it, which will gradually grow as the story goes along. I apologize for the tiny detail missed.
- Enjoy and keep on following, reading and guessing.
Chapter Three: Chaos on the Infinite Railway Track
The Colonel stepped over the doorsill, inhaled deeply, his shoulders rising with the action. Exhaled once his feet echoed dully underneath him, and slowly opened his eyes, one eyelid at a time.
A long corridor stretched before him, complete with a wooden floor covered in a thin sheet of soot, and black walls with its paint peeling off in irregular places. The decay was almost unbearable, triggering a bout of coughing, as his lungs sought for fresh air. It subsided after a while.
This was not PM6- 324; the forsaken hot plate he had stepped onto through the Gate. This was a cramped corridor leading him to his demise. The walls portrayed as such – black, flaky, smothered, and depressive. For all he knew, he might be exploring his death. The thought alone caused a spine chilling sensation. Around him, the walls mirrored the deepest uncharted part of his soul. A part he was afraid to delve into, for it was the place marred by his Special Operations days. Stained by the things he had to do in order to survive, covered up by the days spent exploring other worlds, a place no one desired to reside in, or visit. It was uncharted for he made it so.
The wooden floors initiation was impossible to discern, so were their destination. He was following an unchanging gloomy railway track – life, as he knew it to be. Jonathan Jack O'Neill was this dilapidated corridor, he finally decided.
Sullen and with shoulders stooped, O'Neill walked down the corridor, passageway, hallway – whatever his mind preferred to label it as, whilst dust ascended and descended in tune with his boots. A few paces turned into a dozen, turned into five minutes, turned into a half an hour. Feeling morbid, O'Neill wished this trek ended with an exit, and not with an endless hallway without doors, without windows, and brighter light than the poorly lit bulbs swinging back and forth. Whatever this was, submission was out of the question. He submitted once in the prairie and it scared the heck out of him.
"Dammit!" He growled at the naked light bulbs, "There's nothing here, how can you hang there, rocking back and forth? Mocking me?"
He scrutinized with a dangerous sneer, wishing they would stop, yet they continued with their torturous deed and elicited an exasperated sigh that resonated loudly in the vicinity. His legs moved forward, feet unwillingly dragging underneath him.
Change! He commanded within, squinting at the corridor before him. Just bloody change!
The situation remained the same. The lights still gently rocked. The hallway had no exit. Soot still covered the floors. The black paint remained in its decrepit state and the walls still threatened to crush the air from his lungs.
After an hour, his legs felt like jelly, while the rest of his body sought for a respite – that and he desired a refreshing drink of water and some tasty food. Leaning his head back, he shouted livid curses at the ceiling. Little satisfaction came from the effort, however only managed to fuel his already boiling frustration. Gawking about the corridor, Jack retreated against the wall and slid down, whilst his military issued boots squawked on the wooden floor, and his rump hit its surface with a blunt thud. Protesting knees remained in a bent position, while his arms dangled over his legs.
His deathlike gaze drilled a hole in the opposing wall.
"C'mon!" Jack growled his voice low and taciturn. "You don't fool me. The gig's up! Get me outta here!" He threatened. "Or should I click my heels together three times?"
Bang. Bang. Bang. His boots collided with each other, while his next words reached an octave louder than the previous instructions: "Don't you know I have this ploy of yours figured out? You can't go messing with an uncooperative . . ."
Weariness suddenly overwhelmed his body causing his last words to slur, while his head leaned against the wall. Not long after, his eyes closed and his mind drifted into pitch-black darkness, soaring on the wings of time, lost in a void.
A few hours later
"Wake up! Wake up, Jonathan!"
Jack groaned in his sleep, swatting at the annoying hand.
"We need to leave." The unfamiliar voice spoke with urgency, but it did zilch to stir the Colonel from his dream.
Ignorant of the intrusion, the Colonel rebuked the voice. "There is no here, boy. I should have you reprimanded for this."
The young man scowled in confusion, shaking O'Neill in a vigorous manner. "The enemy is upon us! We need to leave immediately." Then through pursed lips. "Now!"
Jack O'Neill startled with a snort, his world coming through obscure. His eyes blinked a few times, adjusting to his environment. It was black with the amber light of a torch dancing on the farthest wall.
Where has the hallway gone to . . .
Did I just call him a boy?
The confusion and abrupt pull from a wearisome dream furrowed his brow. Numb hands gradually found their way to his face, his fingertips rubbing at the murkiness. Also imagined how the fog in his mind lifted with the action. It was just a bad dream he determined. Then realization struck the Colonel like a tsunami full force, propelling him into an upright position.
His eyes anxiously sought through the dimly lit room. Something was wrong, but he failed to recall what it was. He had flagged it as important and not knowing its significance triggered a fierce anger within his emotions.
O'Neill's world shattered as a stern hand curled around his bicep, pulled him to his feet, and fared well to jerk him back to full cognizance. Shoved like a prisoner against a nearby corner, his head and right shoulder swiftly burnt with the contact. He murmured a foul curse, succeeded it by a fierce stare directed in the culprit's direction. A callous action halted by a hand purposefully shoving his head against the wall yet again. Pain spiked in all directions, as the attacker kept him pinned.
An unfamiliar sensation slivered its way through his soul – a feeling of helplessness seeping through his muscles. He felt weak as dread flooded his system and paralysed his ability to resist. Hot breath came and went against his face as the attacker shouted, making the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. An unrestrained whimper slipped through his lips. The same person, who had saved earth from the Goa'uld, pleaded for mercy. In retort, raspy laughter filled the empty space, and Jack's eyes closed waiting for the end to come.
Suddenly, a deafening gunshot replaced the hair-raising laughter. Blood coated the wall next to his head, and a different man, friendly this time, gently pulled him from the ensnaring corner and away from the lifeless attacker.
His mind clouded with smog as distant words broke through in intervals. They were moving now. Away from the death trap, but his world didn't seem to grasp that he was free. In his mind's eye, he was still stuck in an environment resembling quicksand, and if countered, only hauled him deeper into its vortex. From the recesses of his mind, a familiar urgency emerged, pulling him from the vortex, and suddenly, he saw the space around him.
They were in a neglected training facility.
In his army days, he had spent countless hours in a building such as this. Exercises accomplished all in the name of fulfilling their C.O.'s standards. They were better for it – that year his team had achieved the highest mission success amongst a dozen other teams.
Next, his eyes combed over the figure he had blindly followed. It took a swift sharp turn left down a long corridor, whilst its torch licked at the darkness. The moonlight filtering through the rooms they passed by, indicated it was evening. Somehow knowing this bit of information conveyed a comfort his soul longed for.
At the end of the corridor, a door appeared and without further ado, the figure burst through it. Their progress quickly halted by a large window, which filled most of the wall and show cased a courtyard. The moonlight shone from the right, casting a dark shadow on the left wing of the building.
On instinct, Jack shut the door behind them, and then searched through the room for something to bar the door with, but it was empty. Panic settled in – an occurring feeling he loathed. Jack paid no attention to it, turned on his heels, and noted that the crouching figure situated to the left of the windowsill, eyes frantically scanning the starry skies outside. The anomaly pulled the Colonel from his position and towards the right.
Both men were in opposite corners now peering out into the unknown.
A dirt covered courtyard, large enough to fit half a football field, situated before them. A concrete walkway and the exterior of the training facility, hugged its borders. To Jack it looked like a horseshoe, except it lacked the curved effect. Beyond this, he could barely make out the faint outline of a desert hill lined with basilica-like rock formations. It would be asinine to scale the monstrosity he now termed as Cathedral Hill, to escape whoever chased them.
The Colonel's gaze panned over to the man huddled in the corner. He looked like he was barely out of the academy – a boy with no battlefield experience.
Upon further inspection, dark violet fabric with golden lapels revealed a different uniform than distributed by earth's diverse militaries. It shaped a mid-range muscular body, usual for those pursuing such a career. Light blonde hair covered the top of his skull, which turned stubble at his crown went down to the back of his neck and stretched around to his temple, giving it a partially shaved appearance. The blonde fluff appeared longer on the left, reaching down and past his left ear in a V-shape. Face and hands exposed pale skin, and his eyes displayed vibrant green. The same colour of the emerald embedded into a golden signet ring worn on his right hand.
What's a royal doing in a place like this?
As if sensing the scrutiny, Prince scowled at him.
"You observe as if it's the first time we have met. Does a guard not know his master? I demand you tell me why I had to pluck you from the clutches of death."
What?
"A guard Sire?"
Jack frowned in astonishment as the words echoed in his ears. His voice too sounded funny. Not like his usual deep alluring tone.
"Oy! This is just a nightmare, Jack, just a bloody nightmare."
"Excuse me?" Abhorrence laced Royal's countenance. "This behaviour is unacceptable, not to mention your previous performance with that scoundrel. My father promised me an elite protector. Instead, I got you. Once we reach Toskiya, I will make sure that you are whipped for this insolence."
Jack watched his saviour with astonished eyes. Then decided it would be best to act his imaginary part.
"But Sire, how was I to engage an enemy whom I could not see? I have a concussion for my ignorance."
And that's the truth.
O'Neill's head throbbed like a pounding hammer, which explained his obscure thoughts and confused state, yet, not his current dilemma. Instinctively, his right hand moved to the nape of his neck and came back sticky and bloody. His eyes expanded in shock, for the blood was not the only peculiar thing. His hand resembled that of a stranger's; they were younger, stronger.
Before he could process the change, the prince silenced him with a waving hand.
"A Bladed Craft approaches."
What the heck is a Bladed Craft?
Jack stared at Prince as if he had gone mad, and then his expression fell as the familiar sound of rotor blades slicing through the air became louder.
"Oh, that Bladed Craft!"
It was a UH-60 Black Hawk Helicopter, the same used in Desert Storm, but they had retrofitted this one to cause havoc more than save soldiers from an onslaught.
What's a helicopter doing on another planet?
A single spotlight penetrated through the night sky, scouting the area like a lighthouse. However, this light was not a warning one; it was a seeker, seeking whom it could devour. Like in this instance, the frightened prince O'Neill was presumably to keep out of harm's way.
Peering through the window, Jack saw the Black Hawk hovering above the hill, its light scanning the training facility until it came to an abrupt stop. It had found its target.
A terrifying whirring sound quickened with each passing second, building momentum as it echoed above the Craft's rotor blades and vibrated through the walls. Jack did not think twice about what followed next, as he had seen enough of what this Helicopter had produced on the battlefield.
Panic rippled through his body.
"Get down!" He shouted above the noise.
Both men dove for the floor as hundreds of bullets relieved the window frame of its glass and continued to shred the door opposing it to smithereens. Next, the mini-gun moved to the left, bullets tearing the concrete walls to shards, and then back past the door to the right, destroying what was left of the room. Grey dust swallowed them whole and O'Neill could barely distinguish the cowering Royal from its cloud. His hands were covering his head, whilst pressing his body tight against the corner. Jack too, mirrored the same posture, hands over his ears, as the slugs did their part of leaving no stone unturned.
The devouring suddenly stopped.
Jack slowly uncovered his ears, frowning in confusion, until he heard abrasive shouts exchanged between the pilot and the gunner. Apparently, the weapon had jammed, giving the Colonel a brief opening to assess his options. On instinct, he reached for his sidearm, peered out the window's empty frame, and aimed at the pilot.
Three bullets followed in procession.
The first two broke through the thick windshield making way for the third, as it collided with the pilot's skull in a loud thwack. It should not have worked, but it did . . . with a simple handgun.
He shrivelled back into his corner as the Craft impersonated a spinning top, before finally impaling itself on Cathedral Hill with an immense impact. A shockwave followed suit, its force obliterating nearby walls and shattering windows as the facility absorbed its wave. Fire trailed behind, flames licking into the room and disappearing as swiftly as it came. Moonlight soon replaced the firestorm, its light filtering into the room.
Slowly O'Neill's eyes opened, coughing as his lungs inhaled the dust still hanging in the air. Across from him, the empty metal doorframe rose above the pulverised walls. Overhead, his eyes glimpsed the ceiling that appeared to be exhaling its last breath. Desperate, Jack staggered to his feet. Hurried over to Prince, and pulled him from his hiding place. The unexpected deed furrowed the young man's brow, his confusion unmistakeable. Nonetheless, the groaning sound from above soon rectified it, and both jumped haphazardly over the windowsill, hitting the dirt with a thud.
A loud crack spewed granules of concrete and thick dirt in their direction as the roof sunk down to the floor, crumbling to chunks.
Lifting themselves off the ground, the Colonel noticed he had another weapon strapped to his left thigh, as was customary for the inhabitants. If he had known this previously, he would have been strong, arrogant even, and the assailant would had been the one pinned to the wall with two guns aimed at his head.
Shaking himself free from the image, his eyes glanced the figure beside him. Prince gawked in shock, his body trembling underneath his soot covered uniform. O'Neill disregarded him for the moment and instead focussed on the weapon in his right hand. It resembled earth's version of a USP semi-automatic sidearm. It felt good in his grip as if it belonged. The memory he stowed away for later – it would be the perfect weapon to keep in the armoury.
The aforementioned now dangled at his right side, whilst his eyes combed the devastation. Within the courtyard, a four-foot dam wall mounted above the soil, covering a radius from the building's one wing to another. The explosion mimicked a Grader's labour, as it had cleared a sizable path from the foot of the hill en route for them. Amongst scattered debris, numerous sporadic bonfires danced in the night, while dislodged Helicopter parts lay discarded, mostly around Cathedral Hill where it had finally met its demise. A lone rotor blade lodged in the centre of the courtyard, while smoke rose in its wake.
Presently, there was no sign of the pilot or his gunner. However, to the west, his gaze spotted something peculiar, not known amid such a terrible crash. His left hand grabbed for the sidearm and joining the other weapon, O'Neill directed them to his right. Prince too, marked the same observation, yet to the east just beyond the small rise.
The young man's weapon raised in its direction, "Y-y-you think they survived?"
O'Neill locked eyes with the trembling man. "I doubt it, but I've been wrong before."
"Those are not comforting words." He replied irritated.
A wry smile formed on Jack's lips. "Well, I do try…." The young man glared at him, Jack quickly adding with a deadpan expression, "Sire."
Satisfied, he peered at the devastation. "They must have ejected before the Craft went down."
"It does explain the two bodies."
"Then we shall inspect." Boldness dripped from his words. "They may still be alive."
"Ode Joy!"
The young man scowled at the Colonel's sarcastic phrase, but Jack shrugged it off, left his position, and scaled the mount. To his left, Prince did the same, and moving away from one another in the direction of their respective locations, each found unconscious bodies.
Bending down on one knee, the Colonel examined the comatose soldier. He seemed familiar, but he could not put a name to him. Maybe he was somebody he served with; on the other hand, he was stuck inside someone else's body and stranded on another planet. His memory might not be his own.
His slender fingers reached for the soldier's neck and upon touch, the man's appearance distorted and flickered like a hologram. His hand jerked away, surprised by the behaviour. Dread flooded his system, trembling his muscles, while his heart hammered in his chest and adrenaline burst its way through his blood stream.
What the . . . that's not possible. This is all just a bad dream. It's just a dream, remember Jack.
A sudden petrified shriek slivered through his shocked state. Evidently, Royal had witnessed the same thing. At that point, the body unexpectedly disappeared at his side and merged with the one before the young man, who hastened away on all fours, trying desperately to create distance between him and the strange being.
The young man's fear was clear in that moment, yet Jack also glimpsed the recognition in his eyes. Royal knew the truth behind this occurrence and it chilled the Colonel to the bone. A shudder confirmed it. Responding, Jack ascended to his full height. Guns raised at the fallen soldier. Warily, he moved in Prince's direction, who had escaped to the windowsill.
"What the hell was that?" He practically barked at the young man, throwing caution to the wind.
"How dare you!" Squeaked Royal, his fierce gaze apparent.
"I do . . . challenge you!" The man gaped like a fish, allowing Jack to mock him with a sly smile. "Answer the question, Sire." The weapon in his left hand panned over to Royal. "Dare. Me." He demanded through pursed lips.
Prince appeared as if to throw a tantrum, but instead he faltered underneath O'Neill's death glare.
"I do not know why I should explain this to you. You serve the same . . ."
At that moment, realization dawned and as on cue, his sidearm trained on the Colonel, who responded in kind, shifting his secondary weapon back alongside the first.
"You are one of them!" Prince shouted in anger, livid that he had failed recognition sooner.
"What?" Jack's brow furrowed in confusion. "Who?" He commanded furiously, wishing he could understand. He only knew certain important memories were missing, he failed to remember what it was. "What am I?"
"A simulated rival you daft man!"
Finally, the puzzle pieces came together in Jack O'Neill's mind.
He remembered the black damp room, the forlorn prairie, and lastly, the unending corridor. Weariness, then, enveloped his body, arms dropping to his sides. His weapons slipped from his grip and clattered to the ground.
Royal stared in puzzlement, watching as the Protector dropped to his knees and toppled over. Jack's mind drifted for a few seconds before succumbing to oblivion. Royal's fierce words the last he heard.