AN: Yeah, O'Neill was quite harsh last chapter. Actually when I had it outlined that spat wasn't even in it, it just came out when I started typing. Felt like it would be his natural reaction to things, lash out and say stuff he'll definitely regret later. Anyway, back to your regularly scheduled program.
Sam yelped as her foot caught on the scraggly root, sending her sprawling into the detritus of the forest floor. Her heart raced and her body shook violently. She sucked in air in short, rapid breaths, hyperventilating. Tears streaked through the mud plastered to her face. It almost masked the fact that she was bright red beneath.
The voices ran constantly in the back of her head. Loud, vocal, and multiplying. Now it was their sheer number that masked actual words. But the mocking laughter rang loud and clear.
"Shut up," Sam said. Her voice cracked, making her words unintelligible.
With much effort, Sam rolled herself on her hands and knees. She pulled herself to the nearest tree, slowed considerably as her arms kept giving out beneath her. She hugged the base of the wide trunk desperately, unable to do anything for long moments.
Clutching desperately at the bark, Sam pulled her trembling body up until she was standing once more. She couldn't remember which way she had come from, not that it mattered. Now she simply ran to try and get away from the voices that clawed around in her skull. Trying to get them to die down and disappear.
Sam couldn't hold a thought long enough to remember why else she was doing this.
She staggered drunkenly, unable to keep her weary body on a straight path, her pace somewhere between a walk and a jog. Her world shrunk down to nothing more than the debilitating cramping in her gut and the turbulent pain radiating from her skull. Even the growing ache in her limbs couldn't compete for her attention. The only reason she was able to continue at all was that her body was simply continuing what it had been doing.
When her shoulder connected firmly with the narrow tree in front of her, Sam didn't even register the blow. The spinning tumble back to the ground took her by complete surprise. She would have cried out if the landing had not stolen the air from her lungs. For several minutes she was gasping even more desperately for air.
The tears of pain mixed with tears of frustration. There was no way she would be able to get herself up again. She knew that before she even tried. It was all she could do to pull herself into a sitting position against a nearby tree. Her head lolled weakly against the rough bark.
Sam didn't immediately register the protrusion digging solidly into her hip. Her shaking hand slid back, thinking to push herself away from an exposed root. Her fingers recognized the texture immediately, even if her sluggish brain could not. Instinctually, Sam's hand wrapped around the pistol grip, sliding the gun out of her waistband and resting it, hand and all, on her thigh. It trembled with her body.
A small sound of confusion escaped her lips. When had she gotten a gun? She certainly didn't remember grabbing it, much less stuffing it into her jeans. It wasn't her sidearm, she was all too well versed with the feel and weight of a Beretta in her hand. But did it really matter whose it was or where it came from? Sam decided that she didn't care.
She slid back the chamber, hearing the bullet slide in from the magazine. It was loaded. This knowledge comforted her. Sam was in pain. More than she had ever imagined possible. It showed no signs of subsiding. How much longer was she expected to endure it?
It wouldn't kill her, not in the literal sense. None of this was real, after all. But perhaps the imaginary death would buy her some time where she wouldn't have to feel this hellish agony. Perhaps their next try to put her under would kill her, then she'd never have to feel it again. She knew she should be more reluctant to the idea, but she wasn't.
Because all she could think about was making this end.