In the rhythmic dance of water, her mind was a canvas painted with only four words: water, breathing, time, and focus. Her arms moved with precision with each stroke, fueled by strength and agility. In this realm, nothing else held significance; it was just her, the scull, and the water's embrace.
For what seemed like an eternity but lasted merely around seven minutes, her world was distilled to these elements. Her muscles stretched as she pushed herself beyond her limits, propelling the scull faster through the glistening surface.
Then, abruptly, the spell broke. A mark in the water signaled the end, and reality rushed back in with a racket and color. The coach's sharp and insistent voice pierced through the haze, reminding her of her surroundings. The approaching motorboat hinted at the impending lecture.
Taking a deep breath, Grace O'Neill' braced herself for the inevitable torrent of words. She was growing weary of these post-race debriefings.
"Again, Grace? Haven't we been over this?" Hilton's voice boomed from the sleek motorboat. His sunglasses dangled from his chest by a garish fluorescent green strap bearing the name of one of their sponsors.
Grace wordlessly nudged her sunglasses to the top of her head and sighed resignedly. She sported rubber grips on the earpieces, a handy trick she'd picked up from an Australian rower to keep them secure during her sessions, a detail she appreciated.
"Well?" Hilton pressed, one hand already reaching for his phone.
Grace turned her gaze towards him, aware of what he was after. He had recently installed an app that meticulously tracked boat speed, stroke rate, and technique metrics, offering real-time feedback on her rowing efficiency and areas for improvement. It had become the catalyst for their recurring conversations.
"What's that fucking thing saying now?" Grace inquired, her hands resting casually on the oars.
Hilton shot her a furious look.
"Watch your language, young lady. It's saying you're still doing what you want, not what we discussed or agreed upon. Not what our sponsors want or expect you to deliver." Hilton's voice grew louder, his frustration evident as each word spilled out.
Grace let out another sigh. She knew all too well what the sponsors, Hilton, and even her father desired: a spot on the USA Olympic team. She was being groomed to it. It had been drilled into her since she first stepped into a single scull at 7. Her mother's tragic death in an off-world mission just a month into what became her rowing career had only intensified the pressure. No one knew how much she despised rowing; she was adept at concealing her true feelings since she lost her. But continuing down this path was becoming increasingly tiresome.
She didn't aspire to Olympic glory; she yearned to be a pilot, join the Air Force like her mother, and enter the Stargate Program. Then, she would kill as many aliens as she could to avenge her mother's death. So, she had begun subtly sabotaging her efforts, much to the infuriation of her coach, Henry Hilton, and the disappointment of her sponsors. She hoped it wouldn't be long before they severed ties, granting her the freedom to pursue her genuine passion rather than her father's.
Initially seen as an enticing activity, she was eager to explore. Her mother's encouragement following her passing morphed into her father's fixation and Grace's primary source of seething resentment, reaching the status of deep, passionate hate. It permeated every aspect of her being, coloring her perceptions, thoughts, and actions. It was an overwhelming force that overshadowed her beloved rationality and empathy, driving Grace to harbor an intense hatred towards sculling. She kept doing it to not hurt her father even more, but she hoped for her freedom.
"Was I slower or faster?" Grace's voice dripped with boredom as she glanced at Hilton.
He clenched his phone tightly, his frustration palpable.
"Don't think for a moment that you're fooling me, Grace! I know exactly what you're up to, and let me warn you, it won't work. I'll speak with your father when we're back on land. This ends today," he declared firmly, giving a brisk pat on the shoulder to the man at the boat's helm, who promptly revved up the engine and steered away.
Grace had to steady her scull as the boat's movement churned the once-calm waters. Grinding her teeth, she replaced her sunglasses and rowed back to shore. Another confrontation loomed on the horizon.
As Grace entered the rowing club, the heated exchange between Hilton and her father echoed through the halls. Her father's authoritative voice clashed with her coach's, a familiar scenario given Lieutenant General Jack O'Neill's' penchant for command rather than compliance. Grace braced herself and entered Hilton's office, the clamor abruptly ceasing upon her arrival.
"Father," she acknowledged, settling into one of the plush leather chairs.
He always prioritized picking her up, even amidst his demanding schedule at the Pentagon. It was a commitment he never wavered from, no matter what.
Hilton stood by the expansive window overlooking the Potomac River, a scene she'd grown accustomed to during her two years at the member-run boat club, her second home by imposition and not by choice.
"Grace," Jack O'Neill' responded, his hands tucked into his impeccably tailored dress blues pockets.
"As I've mentioned, General, if your daughter doesn't adjust her attitude, there's little point in continuing. I have others more committed to this endeavor than Grace," Hilson stated, his words measured.
Jack cast a steely gaze at his daughter, who sat quietly in her training attire—a white and green fluorescent microfiber unisuit bearing the main sponsor's logo—her gaze fixed on the wall full of pictures of past winners.
"And do these 'others' also come with the sponsors I've secured for Grace?" Jack inquired icily.
Hilton swallowed hard. General O'Neill wielded considerable influence and boasted an extensive network in Washington D.C. as Head of Homeworld Security. Ever since enrolling his daughter in the club, he had spared no effort in ensuring Grace had every advantage, including financial support from multiple sponsors, which translated into top-tier equipment, potential media coverage when she entered a competition representing the club, and even promotion for Hilton himself. The coach had garnered numerous students thanks to his association with Grace O'Neill', the promising single-scull competitor with her sights set on a future Olympic qualification. The fact that she was the daughter of the Head of Homeworld Security and the deceased Colonel Samantha Carter, one of the Air Force stars, also helped—a lot, media-wise.
"As you're aware, General," Hilton began, backtracking slowly, "your daughter is my primary focus. I only provide occasional assistance to other club members."
Jack smiled, though his eyes remained inexpressive and cold.
"Of course," he replied. "Are you ready?" he asked, turning to his daughter.
Grace nodded and stood up.
"We'll catch up later," Jack said as he opened the door, allowing his daughter to leave.
Hilton swallowed nervously. "Of course, General," he replied, hoping he hadn't jeopardized his primary source of income.
Jack and Grace exited the club in silence. Grace carried her sports bag over her shoulder, shielding her eyes with sunglasses. Jack watched her as she climbed into the large black SUV assigned to him by the Pentagon, feeling a pang in his heart. At nine years old, she was the spitting image of her mother—tall for her age, with long blonde hair tied in a braid and mesmerizing blue eyes behind the sunglasses.
Jack wasn't disappointed that Grace hadn't inherited any physical traits from him. She was Carter through and through, and he loved her all the more for it, especially since a part of his life had ended with Sam's death during the skirmish against rebellious extraterrestrial beings. They had chosen to revolt against their government on the precise day she and the S.G. team she led were present to negotiate the significance of some alien technological device. It was a trade that ultimately claimed her life.
"Home," Jack instructed his driver as he settled into the seat beside his silently sulking daughter.
The ride back to their townhouse was silent, and neither Jack nor Grace felt inclined to speak. Since Sam's death, conversations between father and daughter have become sparse. They were both still grieving, lost in their pain without Sam as the bridge that once connected them.
Jack had insisted that Grace continue to enroll in rowing classes, hoping it would provide her with a focus and a means to cope with her mother's passing. But he could see now that Grace was silently resisting, much like Sam used to do when they served together. After two years of a silent duel, Jack half expected Grace to utter those familiar words, "With all due respect, Sir," at any moment.
Father and daughter exited as the SUV parked in front of their two-story brick rowhouse. Jack opened the door, and Grace immediately retreated to her room, closing the door firmly behind her. She was careful not to slam it shut, but the click of the lock echoed loudly in Jack's ears.
Jack sighed heavily and removed his hat, muttering a curse.
"What am I supposed to do, Sam?" he murmured softly as he unbuttoned his jacket and moved into the living room. He poured himself a generous amount of bourbon and downed it in one gulp, feeling the burn as it slid down his throat.
His gaze fell upon the photograph above the mantle—their wedding day, one of the happiest moments of his life. Sam was in his arms, her ivory dress flowing over his dress blues as she looked at him with her characteristic Carter smile. Jack closed his eyes, trying to hold back the tears that threatened to fall. Some days were more complicated than others. He missed her desperately.
In her room, Grace tossed her sports bag into a corner and began to peel off her damp clothes. After three hours of training on the river, she craved a shower, a routine she typically followed at the club. However, her father's unexpected discussion with her coach disrupted that pattern today. She stepped into her ensuite bathroom, decorated in white and pale yellow, and turned on the shower, letting the water heat up until it was nearly scalding. With a sigh, she stepped under the stream, closing her eyes as the water cascaded over her tired muscles and long hair.
In the privacy of the shower, Grace allowed herself to cry, to mourn her mother. She hit the tiles in frustration until her hands hurt, the tears mingling with the hot water.
"Mommy," she whispered through sobs, sinking to the floor of the shower. She remained there until the water began to turn cold, forcing her to leave. Wrapping herself in her favorite oversized orange towel—chosen by her mother—she returned to her room, ignoring the mirror as usual.
Dripping wet, she sank onto her queen-sized bed, surveying the room. Before going on the mission that ended up killing her, they had spent time together revamping Grace's bedroom decor, aiming for a more mature look. Weeks before, they had picked out new furniture and selected a new paint color for the walls, with her father even lending a hand. Grace's lip trembled as she ran her hand over the soft grey comforter her mother had chosen during their shopping spree. It complemented the white and grey bedsheets and the milky coffee-toned furniture perfectly.
On her nightstand sat a cherished photo of her mother and herself at the beach when Grace was just three years old—a rare family outing to the beach since her father wasn't fond of sand. He preferred the cabin. But for Sam and Grace, he had been willing to make an exception. Grace lingered on the image for a moment before finally drying herself off. She knew her father wanted to talk, and there was no use in delaying the inevitable.
Dressed in denim shorts and a simple white T-shirt, Grace emerged from her bedroom, searching for her father. The living room and kitchen were empty, and she peeked into the office, where her mother's desk remained untouched but meticulously dust-free. Grace wasn't allowed in the office, so she assumed her father was responsible for keeping it clean, as the cleaning service had strict orders not to enter.
Sighing, she decided to check the backyard deck. Her father often spent time alone, lounging in the garden chairs, lost in thought. Grace slid open the glass doors and spotted him seated with a glass of bourbon. He had changed into jeans and a worn-out Air Force T-shirt, sporting sunglasses as he looked up at her when she settled into the chair beside him.
"So, what's the verdict, Your Honor?" Grace quipped, casually resting her bare foot on the table.
Jack couldn't help but suppress a smile. While Grace may not have inherited any physical traits from the O'Neill side, she certainly possessed his sarcasm and humor, depending on who you asked. Sam used to say she had a very O'Neill-like dry humor, though she never elaborated.
"I'm military, not justice," Jack replied, sipping his drink.
Grace sighed heavily.
"Hardly any difference," she retorted.
Jack placed the almost empty glass on the table, signaling his second and final drink.
"Do you want to stop with the rowing, Grace?" he asked, looking at his daughter.
Grace met his gaze immediately.
"Is this a trick question?" she countered, biting her lip—a habit she had picked up from her mother.
Jack shook his head. "No," he answered.
Grace continued to chew her lower lip, considering.
"Would you be terribly disappointed if I said yes?" she questioned, swallowing nervously.
Jack shook his head again.
"No. I thought you liked it, but apparently, I was wrong. You should have told me earlier if you didn't enjoy it," he said, his tone warm and understanding.
Grace's eyes widened.
"Told you earlier? Dad, you wanted me to train for the Olympic team! I was seven!" she exclaimed.
Jack swallowed hard, running a hand through his greying hair. The whites had been multiplying rapidly since Sam's passing.
"I'm sorry, honey. I was mistaken... With your mother gone, I thought you needed something..." Jack trailed off, unable to meet Grace's eyes, hiding the pain in his own.
Grace stopped chewing her lip.
"Well, I hate it. I want to go to the Academy," she declared.
Jack turned to her, surprised. "Academy? Which Academy?" he inquired slowly.
Grace released her lip.
"The Air Force Academy. I want to be a pilot like you and Mom," she announced, her blue eyes shining with determination.
Jack swallowed hard, grappling for words. "Grace..." he began but faltered.
"That's what I want. You asked me," Grace insisted firmly, her resolve unwavering.
Jack sat there, stunned, gazing at his nine-year-old daughter without knowing what to say—an experience that had occurred more than once with her mother.
In addition to her grueling three-hour, six-days-a-week training regimen at the rowing club with Hilton, Grace also attended school. Unsurprisingly, she was a prodigious student, much like her mother, effortlessly excelling in her studies. Grace particularly favored mathematics, enthusiastically diving into geometry, algebra, trigonometry, and precalculus. She had a penchant for lab-based activities, relishing the hands-on learning experiences they provided. Jack had already caught her more than once reading Sam's' old books. At her mother's insistence, she had also been learning Chinese since age four and had become fluent by now.
Despite her demanding training schedule, Grace remained a straight-A student, consistently ranking at the top of her class. Jack did not doubt she would breeze through the Academy entrance exams with flying colors like her mother. The real question was whether he wanted her to pursue a career in the Air Force, knowing all too well what would likely follow.
"And after the Academy?" Jack inquired, although he already suspected the answer.
Grace met her father's gaze with unwavering determination.
"The Stargate Program," she declared.
Jack cursed inwardly.
"Of course," he eventually replied, leaning back in his chair. His gaze drifted back to the grass in the backyard.
"I'll do it, with or without your consent, Dad," Grace stated firmly.
Jack sighed, acknowledging the inevitability of her decision. She was their daughter, after all.
"Very well. The rowing stops, and you'll focus on school. I expect nothing less than straight A's. Are we clear?" he asked.
Grace's smile stretched from ear to ear.
"Yes, Sir," she replied, beaming with determination.
Jack's heart constricted. She sounded so much like her mother.
"Dismissed," he managed to say as Grace darted off the deck. "Dear God," Jack muttered, closing his eyes and grappling with the weight of his daughter's aspirations and the legacy she carried with her.
The following day, Jack returned to the club to inform Henry Hilton that Grace would no longer attend her rowing training. He assured Hilton that he would speak with the sponsors to see if they were interested in other students, though he couldn't make any promises. Then, he headed to his office at Homeworld Security, where several urgent matters awaited his attention.
With Grace now focusing solely on school and Jack immersed in his work, their daily routine took on a different rhythm. Jack tried to be home earlier whenever possible, though his duties sometimes made it difficult. Yet, slowly but surely, they began to bond more. Grace seemed notably happier since quitting rowing, and the house started to resemble when Sam was alive, with books and journals scattered about as Grace studied not only in her room but wherever she pleased. Living alone in a spacious house, Jack never minded her studying wherever she felt comfortable.
Then, two days after Grace turned ten, Jack received an urgent phone call from Hank Landry at the SGC—a call that would alter his and Grace's lives forever.
"What do you mean you have a delicate situation, Hank? What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Jack demanded, one hand gripping the phone while the other signed papers on his desk.
"Look, Jack, I can send you the images, but honestly, I don't know how you'll react..." Hank Landry's voice trailed off uncertainly.
Jack halted his signing.
"Images? I swear to God, Hank, if you don't start speaking English, I'll hang up," he warned tersely.
Landry swallowed audibly.
"We had an unscheduled activation of the Gate two hours ago," he began.
"And?" Jack prompted, resuming his paperwork.
"And it was an old SG-1 code, so I opened the iris," Landry continued, his gaze shifting to Daniel, who stood nearby in his office.
Jack paused again, his interest piqued.
"Old SG-1 code?" he repeated, sensing the weight of Landry's following words.
Landry took a deep breath.
"Yes... So, we opened the iris and received an unexpected visitor. From an alternate reality, Jack," he explained cautiously.
Jack closed his eyes, a sinking feeling gripping his chest. "No, no, no," he muttered instantly.
"I'm sorry, Jack," Landry replied solemnly.
"NO!" Jack exploded, slamming his fist onto his desk and scattering the papers.
"Jack, it's me, Daniel. "Daniel's voice interjected, attempting to bridge the emotional gap.
Ignoring the phone now resting on his chest, Jack stared at the ceiling of his office, his mind reeling.
"Jack?" Daniel's voice came again, gentle but insistent.
Slowly, Jack picked up the phone and placed it against his ear.
"Yeah," he responded hoarsely.
"Hi, Jack," Daniel greeted softly once more.
"Daniel," Jack acknowledged, sinking back into his seat.
"Look, Jack, I know this is difficult and painful, but you needed to know. Dr. Lam is still undergoing tests, but so far, it's her. It's from another reality, but it's her. And she's hurt," Daniel explained gently.
Despite everything going on in his head and heart, Jack's eyes widened with concern.
"Hurt? What do you mean?" he inquired, swallowing hard.
Daniel glanced at Landry for confirmation, then continued, "She was shot in one hand. She told us that she was fleeing from the Lucian Alliance in her world when they ambushed her. She doesn't know how or why she's here instead of in her reality."
Jack scoffed bitterly.
"Then she's a clone or a replicator. If she doesn't know, it's not her," he stated icily.
Daniel cleared his throat, trying to maintain composure.
"Okay, I've given you the basics. I'll pass the phone to General Landry," he said, gesturing to Hank Landry, who reluctantly accepted the call and continued the conversation with the Head of Homeworld Security.
"As protocol dictates, she'll be debriefed once Dr. Lam confirms her identity and verifies she's not a clone or a replicator," Landry explained.
Jack remained silent, grappling with conflicting emotions.
"My question now is: do you want to be present, or do you want me to send you the interview footage?" Landry pressed, sensing Jack's hesitation.
Jack closed his eyes again, unprepared to face her, alternate reality or not.
"Send me the footage. If she's not a clone, send her back wherever she came from. I don't want to know," he declared, his voice tinged with tremors before abruptly hanging up.
Landry set the phone down, exchanging a sad look with Daniel. "This is going to be hell," he remarked heavily.
Daniel sighed in agreement.
"Yes, it is. For everyone involved, but especially for three people in particular," he acknowledged, his hands tucked into his pockets.
"I want to know as soon as the tests are done and we have conclusive results," Landry instructed, leaning back in his chair.
"Understood, General," Daniel affirmed before taking his leave from the office.
Landry closed his eyes momentarily, silently expressing gratitude that he wasn't in Jack's unenviable position.
Sam remained somewhat in shock in the infirmary, still processing the events of the past few hours. She had been on a supposedly safe planet, leading negotiations as commander of the Hammond, when the unexpected happened. The negotiations swiftly descended into chaos as the Lucian Alliance attacked, separating Sam from her crew and fighting for survival with only a zat gun to defend herself. A blast had found its mark in her hand, and when communications failed and she wasn't beamed aboard, Sam had no choice but to flee.
Running for her life, she stumbled upon a Stargate and dialed Earth, instinctively using her last SG-1 code. Suddenly, she found herself in what appeared to be her own SGC, yet the reactions of the personnel around her were anything but familiar. General Landry's command to drop her zat or face being shot, accompanied by the sight of airmen aiming weapons at her, confirmed her suspicions that something had gone terribly wrong.
Escorted to the infirmary, Sam was surprised by Dr. Carolyn Lam, who immediately began tending to her injured hand and conducting blood tests. It didn't take a genius to realize she had somehow crossed into a different reality. Daniel's questioning only confirmed her suspicions, prompting her to provide brief, concise answers to avoid further complications.
Now seated on a bed in the infirmary, flanked by two armed airmen at the door, Sam couldn't shake the unease that permeated the room. Uncertainty hung heavy as she awaited further developments, unsure of what fate awaited her in this unfamiliar reality.