The door clicked shut behind Sam, and she took a steadying breath, surveying the sparse space that was now supposed to be her office—if it could even be called that. The room was small and bleak, with bare concrete walls and a lone Air Force poster, a stark reminder of the reinforced security rather than a source of comfort. It was a far cry from her thoughtfully designed townhouse and her meticulously maintained practice in downtown D.C. Her "office" consisted of a flimsy table with a basic desk lamp, a single chair, and a worn-out sofa that looked so dubious she hesitated to touch it, worried it might leave a mark on her tailored, high-end suit.
In the days following her swift transfer, she'd been forced to close her private practice, notifying her patients through a tightly crafted email offering few specifics. However, the emptiness of those final sessions lingered. She had carefully guided these clients, and leaving them without a personal goodbye feltunprofessional and painfully abrupt. Some patients had replied, bewildered and concerned, unsure why their therapist of several years was suddenly vanishing. Sam's assurances that she would refer them to trusted colleagues had felt hollow; they'd established their trust with her, not someone else.
Martha had been so shocked that she'd barely spoken despite Sam's repeated assurances that she would be financially compensated and that Sam would personally help her find a position with another trusted colleague. Martha had been with her since the beginning of her practice; there was no way Sam would leave her unemployed just because the Air Force had decided to go chasing after aliens.
The loss weighed heavily on her now, in the solitude of her new office. There were names she couldn't shake from her mind—long-term patients she knew would feel abandoned. One had left a message just yesterday, her voice wavering with worry. Sam felt an ache in her chest. Though no one seemed to notice or care, this transfer had cost her more than just her freedom.
As she unpacked the only personal item from her bag—a slim leather notebook—Sam's thoughts turned to the confined space she was now expected to call home. The small room assigned to her was as bland as the rest of the base. No high ceilings, no quiet elegance. Her office in D.C., her sanctuary of steel and ivory tones, felt worlds away from this sterile reality. Here, she was expected to work and live under the same roof as the people she treated, blurring the professional boundaries she had so carefully maintained.
The next evening, as the base lights dimmed, Janet stopped by Sam's office. She could tell the move was weighing on her new friend.
"I can't imagine how strange this must feel," Janet said, leaning against the edge of Sam's desk.
Sam exhaled, frustration etched on her face.
"Strange doesn't begin to cover it, Janet. My life was ordered, every piece exactly where it needed to be. Now, it's all been uprooted. And my patients in D.C.… they had years of progress, and I had to leave them without closure."
Janet's face softened with understanding.
"You'll find a way to help them. Maybe telehealth?"
Sam nodded, considering.
"I've considered that. I've been arranging virtual sessions when possible, though the SGC's security protocols make it hard to keep a consistent schedule. And apparently, if I want to keep doing it, I need General Hammond's authorization."
She let out a soft sigh, a mixture of relief and melancholy.
"This wasn't what I'd planned, Janet. I value my freedom, my space. And now I feel like… like I'm caged. Sentenced to life in a highly secure prison without committing a crime."
"Don't think like that, and I'm sure it's temporary, Sam," Janet assured her. "Maybe there's something you can get from this—another perspective or challenge. You seem to be the person who thrives on that."
Sam nodded and tried to put aside the darkness, which started to settle down on her.
Later, lying awake in her tiny bed in the dimly lit quarters, Sam ran her fingers along the edge of her notebook. Her independence had been her strength, cultivated through years of precise choices and hard-earned boundaries. Now, the Air Force's call had disrupted it all, asking her to take on the role of the SGC psychiatrist—working in the very world she'd spent her life distancing herself from.
But perhaps, she realized, part of her unrest stemmed from something more profound: the fear that she might lose herself in this underground world. That, one day, she would look in the mirror and no longer see the composed Dr. Samantha Carter but someone who had sacrificed her identity to become part of a machine.
Yet, as Sam forced herself to close her eyes, she resolved to find a way to make this work. She would find ways to maintain her practice virtually, to regain her balance and keep her independence—even here, buried under concrete and military protocol.
Dr. Samantha Carter strode down the dimly lit hallway toward General Hammond's office, feeling a knot of frustration tighten in her chest. She hadn't even unpacked all her things, and now she was being summoned with yet another reminder that her new life was not, and would never be, the one she'd carefully built back in D.C.
The door to Hammond's office was ajar, and Sam entered to see him waiting, arms crossed, as he surveyed her with a calm, expectant look.
"Doctor Carter," he greeted her, nodding toward the chair opposite his desk. She sat, keeping her face neutral, though she suspected Hammond was keenly aware of her annoyance.
"Doctor," he began, his tone both formal and matter-of-fact. "Given your transfer to the SGC, I wanted to inform you that Dr. McKenzie has been reassigned to another facility."
Sam's brow furrowed. She'd found it odd that the base's psychiatrist had been absent since her arrival, though she wasn't well-versed in the protocols of classified military bases. She had hoped to speak with him, to gain some insight into what her work here would actually entail—some idea of what she was really doing deep inside a mountain.
"General, I didn't come here to replace Dr. McKenzie. I came here on a temporary assignment, not to become the SGC's official psychiatrist. I have a practice in D.C., with patients who—"
"Doctor Carter," Hammond interjected, raising a hand to silence her, "I understand this isn't the assignment you wanted. However, the current situation is far from ordinary, and with Dr. McKenzie's reassignment, we need a qualified professional on-site. Your qualifications are beyond satisfactory, and you're already cleared for SGC's classified environment. At least for the time being, we need you here."
She opened her mouth to argue, but Hammond handed her a stack of files—thick manila folders, each neatly labeled with names and dates.
"These are Dr. McKenzie's patients," he explained. "You'll be taking them on as part of your duties here."
Sam stared at the files in her hands, her stomach twisting.
"General, I don't want this job. I didn't apply for it, and with all due respect, I don't intend to make this a permanent arrangement. I'm not even military."
Hammond's face softened, though his voice remained firm.
"Doctor Carter, I understand this isn't what you wanted, but as long as you're here, you're part of the SGC team. And for now, this is where we need you. I'm counting on you to make the necessary adjustments."
With no further argument left, Sam gave a curt nod, her jaw clenched as she rose from her chair.
"Fine," she replied tersely, turning on her heel and leaving the office with the files under her arm, her head swimming with frustration. She had spent years building her practice, curating every patient's relationship with care. Now, she was expected to absorb another doctor's entire caseload, as though her life outside the base meant nothing. Sure, her bank account had already seen a substantial increase, but for Sam, this was never about the money. She hadalready made more than enough to support her lifestyle comfortably. What she craved was independence—something she no longer had here.
Once she reached the solitude of her office, she dropped the files onto her desk, muttering under her breath as she began to sort through them. Each file represented another hurdle, another person whose complexities she would be expected to navigate without warning or context. Aliens weren't her specialty at all. Her fingers drummed on the desk, the growing irritation spreading through her until it reached a boiling point. She'd agreed to work here, but not like this.
Just then, the base speakers crackled to life, interrupting her thoughts.
"Attention, all personnel. SG-1 has returned through the Stargate." The words were clinicaland unremarkable to most, but Sam's frustration took a pause, andher curiosity piqued.
She hesitated before leaving her office and going to the control room. Her steps were slower than usual, and her expression was still set inirritation from her earlier meeting with Hammond. But curiosity overrode her anger—she wanted to see theSG-1 team arrive.
When she reached the control room, she looked down to the Stargate ramp, watching as SG-1 made their way through. Their appearance was enough to tell her they'd been through a rough mission; their uniforms were mud-streaked and torn, their faces tense. Colonel Jack O'Neill was leading the team, his jaw set in a hard line as he moved toward Hammond, his expression thunderous. Whatever had happened on their mission, it hadn't gone well.
As he approached Hammond, O'Neill's voice rose, loud enough to carry to the control room.
"With all due respect, Sir, this mission was a bust. We were unpreparedandundermanned, and the intel was questionable at best. We nearly lost Daniel back there!"
Hammond, to his credit, met O'Neill's fierce glare without flinching.
"Colonel, I understand your frustration, but we all know these missions are unpredictable. There's no such thing as perfect intel, and the decision was made with the information we had."
Jack's shoulders were rigid, his fists clenched at his sides.
"General, if we're expected to keep running blind like this, you're going to end up with a dead team sooner or later."
Hammond's face was as stern as ever, though his tone softened.
"I appreciate your input, Colonel, but that's enough. We'll debrief later. Go to the infirmary and get checked out."
Jack opened his mouth to argue but thought better of it. He gave Hammond a nod as he turned on his heel, muttering under his breath. His eyes briefly flicked toward the control room, meeting Sam's gaze before he walked away, his face dark with frustration.
Sam watched him go, feeling a strange mixture of curiosity and reluctance. Right now, though, she wasn't in the mood to deal with him or his attitude. If anything, she was more inclined to find a punching bag and work out her anger over this unexpected transfer.
With a final glance at the Stargate, she turned and returned to her office, shutting the door behind her. She dropped into her chair and opened the first of McKenzie's files, determined to familiarize herself with her new caseload. As she started to read the first lines, she raised both eyebrows.
Since returning from PX9-673 and the brutal encounter with the native Drevaki—a towering, multi-limbed species with iridescent skin and piercing luminescent eyes—Captain Elon Thompson has been plagued by intense nightmares.
"What the fuck?" she said aloud.
Meanwhile, in the infirmary, SG-1 was undergoing their routine check-up. Dr. Janet Fraiser was her usual efficient self, moving between each team member and administering the necessary examinations. As she finished with Daniel, she glanced at Jack, noting the tension in his posture.
"Colonel," she said, her tone gentle but firm, "you're going to need to relax, or you'll make my job impossible."
Jack grunted, folding his arms across his chest.
"I'd love to, Doc, but you know how much I enjoy these post-mission debriefs."
Janet remembered something that would keep him distracted.
"Well, to keep you up with the latest gossip, McKenzie was reassigned."
Jack's eyebrows shot up.
"He was?" he repeated.
Jack let out a low chuckle, although he knew the person he had in mind should be far from pleased with the situation.
"Let me guess: Dr. Samantha Carter. She's the one who got McKenzie sent off to greener pastures?"
Fraiser smirked, checking his vitals. "Looks like it. General Hammond didn't give her much choice. She's not a happy camper right now."
Jack felt a pang of remorse because if she was in this situation, it was because of him. He tried to mask it with sarcasm: "Well, I'm sure she'd rather be in her fancy office back in D.C., with her sleek Mercedes and posh Georgetown house."
Janet rolled her eyes.
"Jack, she was basically forced to abandon her life and practice and wasordered to work here at SGC. And she's not an intern; she's a well-known psychiatrist."
He shrugged nonchalantly, though a flicker of interest remained.
"I'll take your word for it, Doc. But let's hope she lost her interest in me for now."
Daniel chimed in, his tone wry.
"I don't know, Jack. Maybe a few sessions with her now that she's here would help with that 'nearly losing your temper' issue."
Jack shot Daniel a glare. "Don't you start, Daniel."
Janet finished her check, crossing her arms as she looked between the two men.
"Well, from what I hear, she's got her hands full right now with McKenzie's patients. Maybe you shouldsee if she can squeeze you in."
Jack's smirk faded slightly, his gaze turning thoughtful as he processed the idea. Part of him dismissed it as unnecessary; he had his ways of dealing with stress. But another part—the one that couldn't shake the memory of meeting Sam's eyesin the control room—wondered what itwould be like to talk to her again. Now that he controlled the environment, not her.
Sam poured over McKenzie's files back in her office, her mind racing with the overwhelming reality of her new responsibilities. Each patient represented another commitment, another layer of obligation that would tether her more tightly to this base. Jaffa, Goa'uld, staff blasts, symbiote, and so many other words that Sam had no idea what they meant. She slammed a file shut, muttering under her breath as she buried her face in her hands. The SGC was a maze of classified information, high-stakes missions, and unspoken traumas, and now she was expected to be its mental caretaker.
But there was no way out, not yet.
The atmosphere in the briefing room was tense as SG-1 settled in across from General Hammond, who sat with a look of steely expectation. Jack folded his arms, his expression grim as he glanced around the table at his teammates. They were just as on edge as he was. This latest encounter hadn't gone at all as planned.
Hammond glanced at Jack, his brow creasing with concern.
"Colonel, I understand you encountered… resistance from the Tok'ra?"
Jack let out a dry laugh, shaking his head. "You could say that, Sir. Let's just say the Tok'ra aren't exactly rolling out the welcome mat for Earth."
Daniel leaned forward, his expression weary.
"They didn't seem to trust us—or even want us there. We tried to explain our mission, our desire for an alliance against the Goa'uld, but they made it very clear they work alone."
"They operate independently," Teal'c added in his steady, calm voice, "and their secrecy may be the very reason the System Lords have not destroyed them."
Hammond's frown deepened. "So you're saying they see us as a potential threat?"
Jack gave a short nod.
"They did. They didn't care about our offer of an alliance—they told us flat out thatthey work alone. They're resistant to any kind of alliance. And to make their point, they pointed their weapons at us and told us never to come back."
Hammond sighed, looking down at the stack of papers on the table, clearly disappointed.
"This is a setback. We could use allies like the Tok'ra. We're up against forces we barely understand, and without partnerships, we will be fighting this war alone."
Teal'c met Hammond's gaze steadily.
"I believe the Tok'ra operate in a way they know best, General Hammond. Their secrecy is a strategy that has kept them hidden from the System Lords. They will only cooperate when it is of advantage to them."
The General nodded thoughtfully, though his disappointment was evident.
"It seems they have little interest in alliances then, at least for now. This is unfortunate, but at least we know where we stand."
Jack shrugged.
"If you ask me, Sir, they're just another version of the Goa'uld—secretive, controlling, and pretty smug about it. A snake will always be a snake. We'll figure things out independently and continue looking for someone willing to be our ally."
Hammond sighed and stood, closing his notes.
"Well, Colonel, I can't say I'm pleased, but it is what it is. SG-1, take a couple of days to rest up. Dismissed."
Jack and his team stood, making their way to the locker room to change out of their mission gear. As they walked down the hall, Jack could see the frustration on his teammates' faces, especially Daniel, who had hoped for a more diplomatic solution.
"Nothing like getting weapons pointed at you when you're trying to make friends," Daniel muttered, shaking his head as he tossed his gear onto a bench in the locker room.
Jack snorted.
"Welcome to my world, Daniel. Friendly diplomacy only goes so far with these guys. I didn't expect a warm reception, but I didn't think they'd pull weapons on us."
As they changed into their regular clothes, Teal'c observed quietly, "The Tok'ra may yet see value in us, but only if we prove ourselves useful to them. They are accustomed to working in isolation."
Kawalsky finished buttoning his shirt and glanced at Jack with a wry grin.
"Well, at least we've got a couple of days to shake off the 'hospitality' of the Tok'ra. Think I'll take the weekend and get out of here."
Daniel nodded, slinging his bag over his shoulder.
"I'll catch up on some much-needed sleep and go through a few artifacts that've been piling up in my apartment. What about you, Jack?"
Jack shrugged, still thinking about the failed mission.
"I'll catch you guys later. I have some things to do here before I head home."
Jack lingered as the team filed out of the locker room, his mind drifting back to something he'd noticed when they returned—a brief glimpse of Dr. Samantha Carter watching from the control room. He'd only caught her eye momentarily, but it had been enough to see the frustration there. He'd heard about her situation from Janet and realized that, unlike the rest of them, she was confined to the base until further notice.
A pang of guilt twisted in his gut. While he could come and go as he pleased, she was stuck here, her life put on hold because of his assignment. He didn't know all the details, but he could imagine what that kind of confinement did to someone as independent as she seemed to be.
Jack turned and returned to Hammond's office, finding the General at his desk, immersed in paperwork.
"Colonel," Hammond greeted him, looking up with mild surprise. "I thought you'd be heading home by now."
Jack cleared his throat, scratching the back of his neck.
"Actually, Sir, I wanted to ask about Dr. Carter."
Hammond raised an eyebrow, his gaze keen. "What about Dr. Carter?"
Jack shifted, trying to find the right words.
"I just… wanted to know her situation. She's confined to base, right?"
Hammond nodded slowly.
"For the time being, yes. She's undergoing security clearance evaluations, and until that process is complete, she won't be allowed to leave. It's… complicated, Colonel. Her prior work was entirely independent, and now she's dealing with classified material here at the SGC. I don't expect it to be easy for her, but she's handling it professionally."
Jack nodded, a knot of guilt tightening in his stomach. He knew what it was like to have your freedom restricted, to be confined by the demands of duty. And here he was, able to leave the base whenever he liked, while she had no choice but to stay.
"Understood, Sir," Jack said, his voice quieter than usual. "Thank you."
As he left Hammond's office, Jack made a decision. He wouldn't go home, not while she was stuck here. He'd stick around the base, maybe check in on her, see if there was anything he could do. He wasn't sure why he felt so compelled, but the idea of her being isolated in this underground facility gnawed at him.
Later that evening, Jack wandered the hallways, heading toward Dr. Carter's office. He didn't have a plan—just a vague idea of ensuring she was alright. He gave a light knock when he reached her door, but there was no response. He hesitated, then opened the door a crack to see her at her desk, buried in a stack of files, her expression a storm cloud of irritation.
She looked up, her blue eyes narrowing when she saw him standing there.
"Colonel O'Neill," she said, her tone clipped. "To what do I owe the visit?"
Jack stepped inside, giving her a casual shrug.
"Just thought I'd stop by. Heard you were on lockdown here."
She crossed her arms, her posture rigid.
"Yes, Colonel, I am. And I'd appreciate it if people stopped reminding me of that fact."
He raised his hands in mock surrender.
"Hey, just trying to check in. I know what it's like to feel a little… trapped."
Her eyes flashed with annoyance.
"With all due respect, Colonel, I don't think you know anything about what I'm feeling right now. You get to leave whenever you want—I don't. My life, my practice, everything I worked for… it's all on hold because of this assignment. In fact, because of you."
Jack grimaced, feeling the weight of her words.
"Look, Doc, I didn't mean to barge here and make things worse. I just thought maybe you could use someone to talk to. You know, decompress."
"Decompress?" she repeated, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "I don't need to decompress, Colonel. I need to get out of here. But as I understand it, I'm not allowed that luxury. So if you're here to offer sympathy, save it."
Jack shifted uncomfortably, not used to being on the receiving end of such blunt frustration.
"Look, I get it. This isn't exactly the gig you signed up for. But the SGC—well, it has a way of pulling people in. Whether they want to be here or not."
Sam let out a dry laugh, her expression hard.
"So I'm supposed just to sit here and wait until I get used to being confined underground? Sorry, but that's not exactly comforting."
He hesitated, then stepped closer, lowering his voice.
"You're not alone in this, Sam. Trust me, many people didn't think they'd be here either. But you find a way to adapt."
Her jaw clenched, her frustration simmering beneath the surface.
"I had a practice, a life. And now I'm expected to be the base psychiatrist, confined to this place with no regard for the life I left behind. Because of you," she repeated.
Jack watched her, noting the tension in her postureandthe frustration in her eyes.
"Yeah, I get that. I didn't mean for things to turn out like this for you. I'm sorry. But we could use someone like you here. People are dealing with things you wouldn't believe."
She scoffed, crossing her arms.
"I'm beginning to understand that. But that doesn't mean I'm happy about it. Honestly, I'm coming across terms, concepts, and worlds I don't recognize at all, which will only make my work here incredibly challenging."
Jack offered her a small smile, though he knew it wouldn't do much to lighten her mood.
"If it makes you feel any better, I'm sticking around here instead of going home. Figured I'd keep you company, at least for the weekend."
She gave him a long, hard look as if trying to gauge his sincerity.
"And I'm supposed to be grateful for that, am I?"
He shrugged, his grin widening.
"Well, it's a start. Who knows? Maybe I'll grow on you."
Sam's expression softened a little, but she quickly masked it with another sigh.
"Colonel, I don't need pity. And I don't need company. What I need is a way to get my life back."
Jack nodded, recognizing the resolve in her tone.
"Fair enough, Doc. But in the meantime, if you want to grab a coffee or… you know, blow off steam; you know where to find me."
Without waiting for her response, he gave her a nod. He left her office, leaving Sam staring after him, her frustration still simmering but with a flicker of something else—perhaps a reluctant understanding.
As Sam settled back at her desk, a swirl of conflicting thoughts consumed her. She couldn't quite shake the notion that, out of everyone, Jack O'Neill seemed to grasp her predicament more than anyone else. Despite her frustration—and the simmering resentment she harbored—she had to admit that his unexpected gesture, however small, had taken the edge off the anger that had been simmering inside her since the day she'd arrived.
She knew Jack's sympathy was rooted in guilt, and, to be fair, he should feel guilty. If anyone was to blame for her being here, stuck inside a mountain on a classified base, it was Jack. Yet, she couldn't ignore her own mistake—she had signed a nondisclosure agreement without reading it, naively trusting that her role would be the consulting position she'd anticipated. Maybe the responsibility was as much hers as his, though that was a bitter pill to swallow.
But assigning blame felt pointless now. The fact remained: she was confined to this dreary, windowless office, her only personal space, a cramped bedroom with none of the comforts of home. Her freedom was restricted, her work obscured by layers of classified details she couldn't understand, and her life was nothing like she'd imagined. Whether Jack was partially at fault or not, it barely registered in the storm of frustration she was left to face alone.