Author's Note (pardon the long one): A sincere thank you to all of my readers. Dpdp, thanks for the consistency. Sarcastic Sci-Fi Writer, thank you kindly for the comments. A challenge coin is a commemorative coin that members of the military, law enforcement, and other organizations trade amongst themselves or share with civilians to thank them for assistance. It started in some circles as a game or challenge, such as in a bar, where patrons lay down a coin and whoever has met the most important person get frees drinks. Some people just collect them like stamps. They wouldn't make an SG1 coin, per se, since it's classified, but I can see them having something representative of their status or unit.
Sam wandered through her kitchen looking for where she'd left her coffee mug. She glanced at her rarely used television, which she'd left on the past few mornings as she'd gotten ready. She'd taken to playing channels like Cartoon Network, hoping for chance encounters and knowledge via osmosis. It wasn't technically cheating, but it was close.
She stared at the half-filled crossword puzzle sharing a refrigerator magnet with a photo of Janet and Cassie in Santa hats. A few clues had been easy, like "Lives in a pineapple" and "Orange cat's favorite food." Some pop culture was impossible to avoid. Older references she pulled from childhood, in the years before she started taking herself too seriously. She and Mark used to watch Saturday morning cartoons together before their parents were up. Thanks to that she knew that Scooby Doo was a Great Dane.
She'd been out of the loop for a while, but thanks to time spent with Cassie the past several years, she also knew that Doug's dog was named Porkchop and Hakuna Matata was the problem-free philosophy. However, she had to admit she owed some knowledge, like Homer Simpson's middle name and the fact that Donald Duck was banned in Finland for not wearing pants, to past discussions with the guys. You can only discuss logistics around a campfire with three boys for so long before sound tactical discussion deteriorates into absurdity. On their last mission, for example, she'd listened to them have a serious debate about how Darth Vader went to the bathroom.
"He uses the force, Luke," Jack announced smugly to Daniel, who scrunched up his face, unimpressed.
"There are probably collection mechanisms in his suit," he replied, in the same voice he used when explaining ancient civilizations.
"Would advanced technology of that kind not be capable of processing waste?" Teal'c's contribution to the conversation was her favorite so far, but she hid her mirth behind her mug. Or she thought she did, until the Colonel pinned her with a look.
"What do you think, Carter? You're the astrophysicist. And you wanted to be an astronaut." He seemed more interested in her opinion on this than the often life-saving knowledge she tried to provide in briefings.
"Unless you want a lecture on how space toilets were historically designed for male anatomy until an embarrassingly recent date, I suggest you don't ask me." She shared a glare with each of them in turn, eyes lingering on her CO as he held his hands up in mock surrender.
"Right," Daniel piped up, "Well, I think I've had enough discussion of excrement for the evening. Night, guys….and uh…gal apparently." She rolled her eyes at him, but he wisely retreated to his tent, leaving the other boys to sip from their canteens in silence.
She chuckled at the memory, then downed the last of her coffee and checked her watch. She had three minutes to leave, or she'd be late for the briefing. She was excited to assist in finally getting Prometheus home after being retrofitted with the Al'Kesh hyperdrive. However, she was a little disappointed her team wouldn't be joining her.
She glanced at the paper on the fridge again, loathe to leave it behind. But it was still relatively crisp, and the perfectionist in her liked it that way. Most of her gear was on base already, but she had a small personal bag she often slipped inside her pack. She thought back to the book in her lab, which she'd given up keeping pristine long ago. It read like a scrapbook, and she wouldn't take back the crinkles and creases that reminded her of her family. Mind made up, she pulled the page from beneath the magnet, folded it in half, and slid it inside the outer zippered pouch of her bag.
P=100.584/400
After the initial day of prep for launch, her workload decreased dramatically. She kept an eye on the hyperdrive output and monitored the computer's calculations for the next stop, but during stops, there was little else for her to do. She found herself drawn to the paper she'd left on the small desk in her officer's quarters. Some people brought photos of their family. She'd brought a cartoon puzzle. She rolled her eyes at herself in the tiny mirror above the desk.
Without a television, she was forced to search her subconscious for clues. As she was cataloguing the many synonyms for "Wound," it suddenly occurred to her that Yogi's pal Boo-Boo fit the bill, but that was the only clue she was able to muster. The second day, she wanted to hug Lt. Washington when he'd yelled "Bravo!" in the commissary at his teammate's particularly impressive magic trick. She'd hurried back to her quarters after dinner to scribble "Johnny Bravo" on the Elvis clue.
But then she got busier, refreshed her research on the nebula, conducted some briefings, contributed her expertise to some minor technical glitches on board, and then everything went to hell.
She had no idea how long she had lain there, passed out on the floor. After searching the ship for the rest of the crew and finding no one, she wondered back into the engine room, as if returning to where she started would somehow give her answers. She noted a smear of blood on one of the lower panels. An image of her being flung against the wall, as if she were seeing it from outside her body, flashed before her.
Absurdly, a montage of Wyle E. Coyote and other Looney Tunes bits scrolled through her brain, and she could swear she heard "Merry Melodies" playing somewhere in the background. Samantha, you have been watching way too many cartoons. She shook off the visions and tried to refocus her eyes on the room in front of her. Nothing else was amiss, so she moved on to continue her inventory.
Days passed indeterminably, and she was so concussed, exhausted, and bombarded with subconscious projections of her team members and a strange little girl, that she practically forgot about the crossword puzzle. But her subconscious didn't.
P=100.584/400
"Hey," he said as she opened her eyes. Where had she passed out on the ship, this time?
"Jack?" she wondered aloud.
"Excuse me?"
All it took was that tone to clue her in that this was the real Jack O'Neill, the one who happened to be her commanding officer.
"Sorry, Sir," she said, blinking at the lights assaulting her eyes.
He dismissed her slip-up with a comment about her concussion and informed her she'd been stranded and wandering around the ship for four days. Also, the boys wanted to celebrate her return when she was feeling better. It was starting to come back to her just how much the imaginary version of her team had actually helped her solve the problem. She also had a vague memory of the Colonel saying he'd always be there for her.
"Thank you, Sir," she offered before really remembering he hadn't actually said it.
"For what?" he asked.
She considered that this O'Neill would probably say the same thing, or at least think it, but she didn't feel like explaining herself while she couldn't trust her prefrontal cortex. "Nothing."
He smiled smugly. "Think nothing of it. I've got plenty of that."
Just as he was turning to leave, the vestiges of a little girl singing "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star" bounced around in her brain.
"Colonel." She couldn't be sure she'd said it out loud considering all the hallucinations she'd had, but he returned to her bedside.
"Carter?"
"Can you," she closed her eyes, found her words after a delay in processing, "Is my bag here, sir?"
He looked around, then shuffled over to a chair near the door, where a black tactical pack rested. She didn't remember packing it, so either her concussion had dumped that memory, or someone had mercifully collected her things from her room. She panicked for a moment when she considered that might not include the puzzle.
He brought the bag to the bed, and she reached for it. Concern was written on his features. "Just tell me what you need, I'll get it."
She huffed. "Front compartment, zippered bag."
He set the bag on the stool next to her bed and obeyed.
When she had the smaller bag in her hands, she quickly reached inside and sighed in relief when she felt the paper. He squinted his eyes at her and jutted his chin, which she took to mean he was curious but wasn't sure if he wanted to ask, lest it be some female unmentionable. She hesitated, glanced at him, then pulled out the paper and handed it to him.
He smiled even before he had it all the way unfolded. "Carter, you have a gash on your head, and you want to work on a puzzle?"
"A bet is a bet, sir," she challenged.
He looked down, shuffled his feet, but she still caught the look of concern. "We agreed that missions and injuries stop the clock."
"If that's the case, I might never get to work on it."
He rolled his eyes. "Carter…"
"You're right," she interrupted, "my head hurts too bad to actually work on it, but I remembered something."
"Oh?"
"Fourteen across."
He scoffed, looked at the puzzle. "What, you memorized the layout?"
"Easier than chess." She grinned.
"Jet pet," he read.
"Astro."
"Only you would get even smarter with a bonk to the head."
"Maybe I needed to be dumber," she teased.
"Hey, I will have you know that the Jetsons was a revolutionary show that had a lasting impact on our culture."
"Okay, Daniel."
He dramatically clapped a hand over his heart in mock offense. She laughed, then flinched from the pain that swirled in her head.
His expression sobered. "Okay, time to get some rest."
"Yes, sir."
He started to walk away with both her bag and the paper, then paused. He glanced back to the table beside her bed. He set the paper there, then pulled a pencil out of the front of her bag where he knew she always kept one. "For later," he emphasized.
She nodded, wondering if it would be later with him. He couldn't help her on this one, but maybe he could read and write for her while her head was still throbbing.
He deposited her bag on the floor against the wall and mock saluted on his way out. Just before he passed the threshold, he turned back and winked. And that was what did it, brought the memory back in a rush. A memory of her, one Major Samantha Carter of the United States Air Force, fantasizing about kissing her commanding officer while on an official mission for the United States Air Force, on board the flagship vessel of the United States Air Force. No wonder she had woken up calling him Jack.
"One more thing…" she mumbled, not realizing she was replaying her memory out loud. She clapped her hands over her face in embarrassment, even though she was the sole proprietor of this knowledge. Well, as far as she knew. What else had she mumbled while she was out of it?
"Carter?"
Oh no. She looked up, realized he must have heard her. His face was full of concern rather than irritation at being stopped again. She felt a little guilty. He probably thought she was still loopy from her concussion….well, she was…but not in a way that warranted medical intervention. She just needed to get a hold of herself.
"Sorry, sir. It was nothing."
He smiled. "Still got plenty."
She returned his smile. Crisis averted.
"I'll be back later to check your work," he threw at her on his way down the hall.
A parade of lovesick cartoon characters with hearts beating visibly out of their chests marched through her brain in time to her still throbbing headache. There was no getting a hold of herself anytime soon, apparently.