fic: the world asunder (stargate sg1)
finish-a-thon ficathon: sam and jack after the "absolute power" au fade-to-black.
STATUS: Complete
SUMMARY: He also feels like he could maybe hate her for knowing more than him right now, for acting so calm when their whole goddamned world is doing somersaults.
RATING: PG
CLASSIFICATIONS: Sam/Jack
SPOILERS: Absolute Power (4x17)
ARCHIVING: Do not archive. Thank you.
THANKS TO: nandamai for the betaing.
WORDS: 7,855
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Don't sue.
Copyright anr; May 2009.
* * * * *
The World Asunder by anr
* * * * *
After the launch (and subsequent destruction of Moscow, London and Beijing), Jack spends five weeks, three days, nineteen hours and some odd minutes in prison.
In hindsight, he probably should have set a tape for The Simpsons before he left home.
*
His release from prison is no stranger than his admittance to it. Jack listens to the man who claims to be his lawyer (Joe Flaxton? Faxon?) talk about things like house arrest and daily visits from a probationary officer but doesn't bother to ask any questions. His lawyer looks like he wouldn't even have the security clearance to pour coffee at the SGC, let alone be privy to the reasons why Jack O'Neill has just been given a (somewhat limited) get-out-of-jail-free card.
He's taken from the correctional facility to the airport under armed guard, the requisite ankle monitor already fitted. From there it's a red eye flight back to Colorado Springs and a prearranged ride back to his house.
As he stands at his living room window, watching the black van pull out of his driveway and leave, he sees a silver Taurus parked conspicuously outside Mrs Petersen's house.
"Welcome home, Jack," he mutters under his breath.
He doesn't believe for one second that he has been given his freedom.
*
He tries the TV first, needs news and information, needs it fast. His cable is out, but he's able to pull up the local stations.
Local weather. Earthquake relief efforts in south Peru. Colorado Springs Retirement Home Bake Sale this Saturday. Nicole Kidman and Tom Cruise divorce gossip. Suspected terrorist attacks at utilities plants across the midwest. National weather. Armed robbery in Denver. Beijing winning the 2008 summer Olympics bid. The upcoming Harry Potter movie. Public health warning reminders about bird 'flu.
He tries switching channels but it's the same across the board. Bird 'flu and bus strikes.
Turning off the TV, he heads to his front porch to collect his mail. Though it's tempting to wave, he ignores the Taurus still parked across the street.
He has five Newsweeks, one for each week he's been gone and each a complete waste of time -- or proof that he's living in some wacky alternate reality, he's not sure which. Even the oldest magazine, the one that would have come out just after he started his holiday at the Jail Chalet, has no mention of Daniel's satellites or the destruction of three of the most powerful cities in the world.
There's just page after page of local crap and some possibly killer strain of 'flu that's sweeping across the globe. He can't count how many articles there are talking about vaccinations and the need to avoid pigeon crap, about how international flights and imports have been temporarily restricted but the President is having a fabulous time touring the seven continents.
The most recent paper even has a picture of the President shaking hands with Vladimir Putin on the steps of the Kremlin Senate in Moscow. Moscow!
Closing his eyes, he throws the magazine as far as he can across the room.
His phone line is dead; he doesn't even bother turning on his computer.
*
There's no food in his kitchen, just a couple of new life-forms. He thinks he recognises the one in his crisper from P6J878.
No beer either; he's officially in hell.
*
In his bedroom, he sits on the edge of the bed and stares at his ankle monitor. There's no way he'll be able to remove it himself without setting it off -- that's Carter's area of expertise -- but there's always amputation. He wonders how far he'd be able to go with only one foot, a trail of blood marking his path, and decides to make that Plan B.
When he tries to figure out how far he can get before his probationary officer realises he's gone and turns to the monitor's tracking system (assuming they're not already examining his movements from lounge room to kitchen to bedroom), he decides it should be long enough for him to get to Daniel (at which point he'll probably be setting off alarms anyway).
There's an old chocolate tin in the corner of his wardrobe. Opening it, he digs out a wad of cash and tosses it from hand to hand, thinking. He'll need a vehicle. Weapons. He can steal the former and buy the latter -- getting his hands on some C4 might be a bit of a problem but the guns and knives will be easy enough -- and he should still have a pair of night vision goggles lying around somewhere.
He decides not to work out his overall chance of success; the whole thing is depressing enough already.
*
It doesn't take him very long to pack a duffel -- change of clothes, the sidearm he had in the tin along with a three-quarters full box of cartridges, the goggles and a survival knife -- but it's still light out, not quite twilight yet, so he has some time to kill. He'll leave when it's dark and bank on the fact that no one will be expecting him to run his first night out of prison.
Two steps into his bathroom, however, he stops short and wonders if maybe he might have to start rethinking Plan A.
"Car--"
She moves quicker than he remembers, stepping forward to slap her hand across his mouth, her other hand reaching into the shower beside him and turning on the faucet, hard. Tugging him further into the room, she shuts the door behind him and then backs him up against it, her fingers tight on his shoulders.
"I'm not crazy," she says, her voice barely audible over the rush of water in his shower, and it's not a question, he knows it's not, but that doesn't stop him from answering.
"That depends," he says, "am I?"
*
She's looked better.
"After Moscow, London and Beijing, Daniel demanded that the President cede all control over to him. The President refused, and Daniel sent a warning strike into the Atlantic ocean, fifty miles off the Manhattan coastline. It worked."
Thin cut running above the collar of her t-shirt, not-quite-hidden bruises on her upper arms and wrists. Her jeans are too big.
"He went after the United Nations next and was likewise met with resistance, pointless as it was. Iran, France, Australia and Germany were attacked the moment their fighters hit the tarmac. The reasons why Rome and Switzerland were taken out have not been made clear."
Bead of sweat running down her hairline, no makeup, hair finger-combed. When he looks in the mirror behind her, he can see the impression of a handgun in the small of her back underneath her t-shirt.
"How do you know all this?"
"The internet. They might have control of the newspapers, magazines, radio stations and television studios, but the 'net is --"
He waves blindly towards the bathroom door. "The newspapers --"
She nods. "Censored."
He rolls his eyes. "Obviously. What I was going to ask is what's with all the bird 'flu talk? Coincidence or cover up?"
She shrugs. "My guess is it's a cover up, a way to keep the population quarantined and not asking too many questions about what's really happening. They're providing way too much information for it to be a real epidemic -- almost running off at the mouth. If there really was a disease ravaging the planet, there's no way it would be this well publicised."
"We'd be reading about it on the internet instead."
"Exactly."
"But if the internet's telling everyone what's really going on --"
She shakes her head. "They're not. Or, rather, they're not anymore. Anyone who talks too loudly quickly finds themself a victim of the supposed 'flu. Most of it's being whispered about in chat rooms and forums, the actual information buried under layers of code and netspeak. Those who do know are fast learning how to be circumspect."
"Aren't people suspicious? Surely there are people here with families or friends overseas, getting in contact with them and --"
"The mail's controlled, everything coming in and out censored. All cable networks have been shut down -- a post-Y2K bug if you're stupid enough to believe the party line. Telephone lines and cell signals are hazy at best. You either can't get a connection or, if you do, it'll cut out as soon as you say anything even remotely interesting."
He's in shock, he thinks. At least technically. Daniel's betrayal, the long weeks spent in isolation and his unexpected release, finding her in his bathroom and this anti-fairytale she's now force-feeding him. "You realise this all makes very little sense, right? The resources alone they would need to isolate America like this --"
She shrugs again. "Tell me what does make sense then."
*
He sits on the edge of his bed and watches her work, her head bowed and nudging his knee as he holds the penlight for her. Her fingers are light on his ankle as she works to remove the monitor, brief flashes of silver winking in the thin beam of light as she wields her tools.
"I'm here because of you," he says quietly, his free hand hovering above her head, carefully not touching her. "Because you escaped."
She doesn't react to his words, but he knows she's listening.
"Because you can stop him."
There's a soft snick as the ankle monitor falls free. Neither of them move.
"I'm your bait."
She looks up, her head tipping back to press against his palm.
"Yes."
*
Carter moves through his house like a thief, clinging to the walls and shadows, ducking down low when she has to move past a window. She gestures with hand signals that he shouldn't mimic her.
They're in his kitchen when his TV suddenly switches on, The Simpsons theme song startling him as he leans against his fridge and watches her attach his ankle monitor to what looks like a miniature MALP. His sidearm is in his hands before Bart would have even cleared the school steps.
She doesn't even flinch. "Timer," she says softly, not looking up from what she's doing. "I set it while I was waiting for you."
A hundred questions he wants to ask her, a hundred things he doesn't understand yet, can't quite work out. He feels like he's trying to put together a jigsaw puzzle that's missing three-quarters of its pieces and the cover that shows him what it's all supposed to look like in the end.
He also feels like he could maybe hate her for knowing more than him right now, for acting so calm when their whole goddamned world is doing somersaults.
Putting down the screwdriver, she sets the mini-MALP on the ground and flicks a switch. With a soft whir, the device drives itself slowly out of the kitchen and into his living room.
"I preprogrammed it with the layout of your house," she says, clearing the table. "It will move from room to room at random intervals, giving anyone monitoring you the illusion that you're still in here."
She looks up at him when he doesn't say anything. Slowly, he clicks the safety back on his sidearm.
"I always liked this episode," he says.
*
He watches her leave the house, weaving through the shadows as she moves across his yard and disappears into the tree line that backs his property. He follows after an appropriate delay.
"We need to head northeast," she says when he's at her side, "I have a car."
He nods, readjusting the duffel on his back as she starts to walk away, picking her path through the leaf litter carefully. When he glances back at his house one last time, his bathroom light flicks on.
He stops, surprised, and watches. A minute later, the light switches off again and a few moments after that, his kitchen light turns on.
Carter's watching him, apparently unconcerned with the fact that someone is in his house already, using his bathroom and...
Right. "Timer?" he asks unnecessarily, and she points behind her.
"We should stick to the trees until we clear your block."
He gestures widely. "After you."
*
Carter leads him to a parked car, five miles from his house. Once inside, she reaches into the glovebox and pulls out two envelopes, handing him one. When he opens it, a drivers licence and social security card fall out.
"Jonah Matthews," he reads, running his thumb over the plastic surface. It feels real. "Jonah?"
She nods. "P3R118. I figured you'd respond better to an alias you've had familiarity with."
"Oh." He watches as she pulls out her own IDs. "And you are?"
"Cara Matthews."
"Cara," he repeats, testing it out. "Cara."
"Thera was too unique, and this at least sounds similar enough to Carter should one of us slip."
He watches her slip her licence into her pocket and start the car, shifting into first gear.
"How long have you've been planning this?"
She doesn't look at him. "Since Teal'c," she says shortly.
Christ, he thinks. That long? He knows she's a genius and all -- has relied on that fact more times than he can remember over the years -- but still. Is she some kind of psychic now? "How did you --" He stops when he realises he can't decide how best to finish that sentence.
How did she know that Daniel would take over the world?
That there would eventually be sides -- her's and Daniel's -- and that he would choose her's?
That, one day, they would need all this -- fake IDs and escape vehicles and god knows what else -- to try and make things right again?
Flicking on the headlights, she pulls out onto the street. "Nobody gets left behind," she says simply. "You taught us that." She glances at him quickly, looking away again the moment he tries to hold her gaze. "When Daniel forgot it, I knew."
*
They drive the long way to the New Mexico border, avoiding the highways and toll roads. In Garcia they stop at a twenty-four-hour fast food joint. The place is mostly empty and they pick a table somewhere between the counter and the exit. While she collects a handful of paper napkins, he drips soda on the chairs of the tables nearby to discourage anybody from sitting too close.
"How'd you get out?"
It's just one of the many questions that have been bugging him ever since he walked into his bathroom and found her standing there, waiting for him, and he plays with his french fries as he waits for her to answer.
"I don't want to talk about it," she says shortly, wiping her mouth and hands on a paper napkin and, despite his curiosity, something in her voice tells him not to push.
He starts building a fry pyramid. "Where are we headed?"
"Right now? Mexico."
He'd already figured that one out himself -- Survival Tactics 101, never travel directly to your destination. "And then?"
"Nevada."
He looks up, surprised. "Daniel's back east."
"I know."
"So's his satellite command centre."
"I know."
"Then why --"
"We need to contact the Asgard in a different reality," she explains, "and then get them to send us back to our Asgard. Hopefully Thor will help us locate a sun flare so that we can send a message back in time and fix this."
Different... "You're talking about the quantum mirror," he says slowly, "crossing dimensions."
She takes a sip of her soda. "Yes."
"Okay," he says, "but why not just contact our Thor first? Cut out the middle di-men-sioning?"
She shakes her head; starts turning her soda cup in slow circles. "Daniel had both 'gates deactivated once he had enough naquadah for the satellites. I'd need prolonged access to reactivate one and somehow I don't see his security details letting me do that."
"And even if we could call someone to come pick us up," he says, following her train of thought, "the satellites would catch them as soon as they got too close."
"Right. Same thing as if we tried to fly out using one of the 301's."
He runs out of fries before he can complete his pyramid; changing designs, he starts creating his own Stargate. "Didn't Hammond order that mirror be destroyed?"
She nods. "It was scheduled for destruction last year -- I'm hoping Daniel's reprioritisation efforts screwed up their project as much as it did ours."
Not the most solid plan they've ever had, he thinks, but maybe still better than nothing. "Plan B?" he asks.
"We grab the mimic devices instead and red eye it back to Daniel's."
Mimic devices, mimic devices... "Those makeover doohickeys the alien lizards brought home?"
"Yes."
Direct action, nice. "I think I like Plan B better." He sits back in his chair. "In fact, I think we should make Plan B, Plan A."
"To what end?" He watches her lean forward in her chair, expression suddenly stern. "If we go after Daniel at least one of us will succeed in stopping him, yes, but the damage he's caused will remain."
It really bugs him, sometimes, when she's right. He breaks a fry in half.
"Plan C?"
"Haven't got that far yet."
He finishes off his soda. "Here's to the first two then."
*
They drive through the night, and most of the next day, deliberately tripling their travel time by taking the back roads and scenic routes. For a couple of hours they even loop back north towards Colorado. Anything to keep them off the more patrolled roadways.
Fifty odd miles from the Mexico border, they rent a motel room for the night.
*
Carter dyes her hair in the motel sink, rivulets of muddy coloured water dripping down the back of her neck and patterning the already stained tiles.
"You should do the same," she says when she's finished, tossing the ruined towel onto the floor.
You look different enough for the both of us, he thinks. He has to stop himself from reaching out and touching the dark strands feathering her cheek. "I'll think about it."
*
While Carter grabs a few hours sleep, he heads out to buy supplies.
Clothes for both of them, some soda, bread and sandwich meats for later, half a dozen knives and two Glock 9mm's. When his FBI/NICS check passes with flying colours (somehow, Jack's not surprised to find that Jonah Matthews has a permit to carry a concealed weapon), the owner takes twenty percent off the price of cartridges for him.
Back at the motel, he sits at the small table in the corner of the room, stripping and cleaning the guns. The TV is on in the background, some mocumentary about cartoon violence (occasionally they show snippets from The Simpsons), but Carter's still asleep so he keeps the volume low.
The news comes on eventually, mostly local crap and not at all interesting, until he hears his name. Looking up, he finds himself staring at his own image.
"... of the US Air Force..."
The snapshot of him in BDU's blurs into a grainy video of a military action -- Jack seriously doubts the soldiers running around, shooting blindly at indistinct targets, are even USAF let alone related in some way to one of his missions. Cutting back to the anchorwoman, she offers up some quotes (supposedly from his former superiors) regarding his mental state (poor), his record (worse), and his propensity for violence (high), some of which are most definitely exaggerated.
When she mentions Charlie, he turns off the TV and wakes Carter.
*
They head west out of New Mexico and into Arizona, beginning a slow curve up towards the Nevada border. Every couple of hours they stop and play tourist, asking for directions on how to get to San Diego or Los Angeles. He doubts their false trail of breadcrumbs will really fool anyone, but neither can he think of a better plan; as much as he hates to admit it, he's not prepared for this.
They switch vehicles in a trailer park near Safford that looks like it hasn't had much business in recent months, if not years. It's dawn, the sun just starting to crest the horizon, and he stands watch while Carter hotwires a car for them.
"You know, if this was a movie, we'd get something better than a Volvo." He can't keep the distaste out of his voice.
She snorts. "If this was a movie, we'd have more than three cars to choose from."
The car coughs to life with a sick splutter; it'll be a miracle if it even makes it out of the park. He watches her get out and walk around to the other side.
"Next time," he says, sliding into the drivers seat, "we're getting something cooler. Like a Ferrari."
She unfolds the map, hiding what he's sure is an eye roll. "Yes, Jonah."
*
"I kept getting reassigned, tasked to head project after project but never to completion."
Keeping his eyes on the road, he feels her shift in her seat. She's facing the window, hands pillowing her cheek against the glass, and until a moment ago he'd thought her asleep.
"As soon as each development reached UAT, I would be pulled off and sent on to the next." She huffs out what he thinks might be the beginnings of a laugh. "I accrued more frequent flyer miles in those eight months than I did during my entire assignment in the Gulf War."
He considers making a joke, seeing if he can't turn that fraction of a laugh into a smile, a smile like the ones she used to give him, but she continues before he has the chance to decide.
"I thought..." She shakes her head. "It was exciting, you know? Cutting edge technology, limitless funding, and the science -- man, the science was incredible. We were developing the most advanced defence system in the universe and I -- I was the person in charge of getting each division up and running..."
He overtakes a truck, watching it gradually diminish in his rear vision mirror.
"Daniel said I was needed, necessary, that I couldn't devote myself to just one application, not when the safety of the world was at stake."
He glances at her, her quiet -- sad -- tone like ice on the back of his neck. "You are necessary, Carter," he says quietly. "You're always --"
"Cara," she corrects automatically, softly, cutting him off. She shakes her head. "He was using me, spinning me from assignment to assignment as soon as I got each stage started so I wouldn't piece it all together and figure out his intentions."
"But you did." His hands tighten on the steering wheel. "You did figure it out." He glances at her again, but he doesn't think she's listening to him. "Car-- Cara --"
Curling further against the door, she sighs. "I thought he was my friend."
*
They stop briefly for gas just inside Vegas, Carter ducking inside for supplies while he fills them up. It's the most populated area they've been in since leaving Colorado Springs and neither of them are particularly happy with the stop; the number of people at the gas station alone is enough to make him apprehensive, not to mention the fact that he can see at least half a dozen people wearing surgical face masks (which, initially, he had thought would be a great way to blend in, until he'd also seen a passing patrol car slow down to a crawl next to a car containing a masked couple).
He's relieved when they're back on the road, unchallenged and uncaught.
"Cara?" He has to remind himself to use the correct name, the letters rolling off his tongue a little unevenly.
"Hmm?"
Leaning between the seats, he snags one of the bottles of water she'd bought. "On the off chance we are insane, and a killer 'flu really is sweeping the globe, promise me you'll never make me wear one of those mask things."
She smirks and checks her blind spot, overtaking a campervan. "You'd rather catch the plague and die?"
"Hmm -- death or Michael Jackson homage, death or -- yeah, I'm thinking death's the better option there." Noticing her outstretched hand, he passes her the water bottle.
"Thanks." She drinks. "Guess it's a good thing you're not insane then."
"Yeah." Taking the bottle back, he tries for a smile. "Guess so."
*
Before they can leave the city proper, Carter detours into a Storage West, pulling up outside what looks like a decent sized unit. He has a fair idea of what they'll find inside -- she's not the only one who's been trained for this -- so he's not too surprised when she opens it up.
"Been doing a bit of shopping in the black, I take it."
Grabbing what looks like three laptop bags, she shrugs. "You know how I despise retail."
Toeing one of the larger plastic containers -- C4? P90's? a naquadah-enhanced bomb? he wouldn't put any of the options past her -- he rolls his eyes. "Right."
*
They hit the town of Alamo at twilight, Carter directing him to pull into a motel parking lot off the highway. As he kills the engine, she opens the glovebox and pulls out her gun, fingers flicking off the safety before she slides it down the back of her jeans, tugging her t-shirt back into place.
"Stay here," she says shortly, opening her door.
Yeah, right. He undoes his seatbelt and turns to open his own door, freezing only at the sudden press of her fingers on his arm. Her grip is hard, the tips of her fingernails digging through his shirt.
"Stay," she repeats, glaring, "here," and though everything in him is telling him to get out of the car, to disagree -- maybe even remind her of their ranks -- something in her expression forces him to remember: this is her show.
Her show, her rules, and he wouldn't even be here right now if it weren't for her...
He sinks back in his seat slowly, looking away from her and removing his hand from the door handle, waiting for her to remove her own hand.
When she gets out, she slams the door shut.
*
She's gone about ten minutes, returning with directions. "Room ten," she says, leaning in his open window and handing him a key, "park round the back."
She pecks a swift kiss on his lips, pulling back and walking away before he can do little more than blink.
He watches her walk away, his hand moving on autopilot to turn the key still sitting in the ignition, mind blanking.
Her show.
*
He finds the room easy enough, parking in front of the door. He leaves the majority of their gear in the car, taking with him only their backpacks and duffel. Though he can't see anyone -- there's no one outside, and most of the other room windows are curtained -- that doesn't mean no one's watching.
Inside, he twitches the curtains closed before retrieving his own Glock. There's a small table with three chairs, and he takes a seat on the one just off from the door, facing forward and hands on his thighs, gun ready and waiting.
He doesn't have to wait long.
She knocks twice on the door but doesn't enter, waiting for him to let her in, and if he hadn't already been spun in a thousand different directions since first meeting her five years ago, her appearance now would easily be enough to turn his head.
"Nice look," he says, scanning the parking lot behind her before shutting and chaining the door. He turns back in time to watch her toss a second face mask on the table before pulling her own off.
"Most of the town's wearing them," she says, running a hand through her hair. "It's more conspicuous not to now."
Welcome to Neverland, he thinks, placing his gun on top of the masks on the table. "Motel owner tell you that?"
"He very strongly recommended I get some, yeah," she says, and he knows he should hear the words, or else we can't stay here, unspoken at the end, but her reaction to him trying to leave the car earlier makes him suspect she's had this motel booked, ready and waiting, for too long to let something like a (fake) epidemic interfere with that plan.
"You get any food?"
She shakes her head. "There were a couple of uniforms outside the supermarket; didn't want to risk it. We can try and pick something up later, maybe."
He nods and steps towards the bathroom, tugging his shirt over his head. "I'm gonna take a shower."
She's already digging through the bags on the bed, pulling out a laptop. "Save me some hot water, yeah?"
He tosses his shirt over the back of a chair. "Yeah."
*
By mutual agreement they decide to stay in. The takeout place initially tries to refuse delivery when Jack calls up -- how do we know y'all aren't snifflin' over there at the no-tell, dude? freakin' bird 'flu's already flyin' south, you know -- but eventually a promise to triple the tip changes their mind.
"Whole world's going to shit and I'm getting fleeced over a ten dollar pizza," he mutters, hanging up. "Fucking typical."
Carter doesn't even look up from her laptop. "Let it go, Jonah."
And stop calling me Jonah. Biting the words back -- he never thought he'd miss the word 'Sir' falling from her lips -- he heads to the door. "I'm going for ice."
She shrugs. "Don't forget your mask."
Now it's his turn to slam the door.
*
He takes fifteen minutes, dragging his footsteps, aware the entire time that he's being selfish, that he's risking too much, almost daring someone to see him without a mask, and yet --
*
He gets back to their room the same time as the pizza, handing over his money -- forty bucks for one pie? maybe he should let the world end -- and wishing now he'd taken the stupid face mask.
"You look real familiar, dude," the kid tells him, staring blatantly, "you come to the Alamo often?"
"Oh, you know." Jack shrugs, a cold pit of fear building inside his stomach as he pretends to fumble with the room key. He has no intention of knocking on the door with the kid here -- God knows how he would explain the laptops and assorted equipment Carter's already got set up without him running off to find the nearest cop. "Good night."
The kid shrugs. "Nigh--" His eyes widen suddenly. "Cara girl!"
Looking over his shoulder, Jack winces as he realises Carter has opened the door behind him, enough of her toys on show to spread a hundred rumours, none of them good.
"Hey, Bobby." Carter gives the kid a bright, bright smile that Jack doesn't buy for a minute. "How goes it?"
"Conspiracy central, girl. Been wonderin' when you were goin' to show up."
"Oh, you know me." Taking the pizza from Jack, she opens it up and sniffs appreciatively. "When the black 'copters start buzzing..."
Bobby nods. "Word." He nods to Jack. "So this is Jonah, eh? Steve's gonna be super pissed he's real and all."
Carter snorts. "Steve needs to lay off the weed." She raises an eyebrow. "You too, I imagine."
Grinning, Bobby shrugs. "Nothin' wrong with expanding the mind, girl. 'If we value the pursuit of knowledge, we must be free to follow wherever that search may lead us.'"
"Yeah, I'm pretty sure Stevenson wasn't talking about the searching along the light fantastic when he said that."
"Whatever." Bobby turns as if to go, pausing before he actually can. "Hey, that reminds me -- we're headin' over to Rach-west later tonight for a scope; you and the ol' man in?"
Carter nods. "In."
"Awesome."
With a wave, Bobby turns and leaves, Carter backing into the room with the pizza. Jack waits until the kid's tail lights have cleared the parking lot before shutting the door and following her.
"'Cara girl'?" he repeats, eyebrow raised. He takes the piece of pie she hands him.
She nods. "Several of the projects Daniel tasked me with were based out of Nellis -- it was here I first began piecing together what he was trying to accomplish."
Picking a piece of olive off his slice, he drops it into the box. "That doesn't explain --"
"I started coming out here to think -- I kept hoping that if I could just clear my head, get some perspective away from the Base, I'd be able to put away my fears. I'd realise I was wrong and that there was no way Daniel could be doing what I thought he was doing."
"Instead you realised the opposite," he says.
She nods. "I knew then I'd need a cover here, a back story -- that's how I met Bobby and his friends."
"You chose a group of stoners for your cover deliberately?"
She shrugs. "They're not quite that bad. They like to talk big and buy into the stereotype but it's mainly just a show for the tourists. The majority of their conspiracy knowledge comes from X Files repeats."
"If they're not the real thing, how are they any help?"
"They're college students," she says simply. "They'll do anything for a dare and fifty bucks."
*
A little after midnight they leave the motel and meet up with Bobby, Steve, Ahmed and Lisa, the kids driving them out towards Rachel but veering off to the west a little before they actually reach the town itself.
They seem like decent enough kids, despite the fact that he's pretty sure all of them are at least a little baked and he has no idea how they all seem to know who he is.
"Steve," Carter says quietly, nodding to the slight, Asian guy throwing stones from the back of the pick up they're riding in, "kept trying to hit on me the first couple of times. I made up a husband back home to let him down gently."
Well, that explains the kiss when they'd arrived; she was solidifying his cover. "Anything else I should know?"
"No, that pretty much covers it."
"Cool." He doesn't fully believe her, but that's a discussion for another time. "So, what's the plan tonight?"
She shifts the laptop she's carrying. "Before Daniel had me removed from the project, I planted a series of bugs around the Base. Assuming no one's found them, I just need to set up a link from the perimeter and we'll have live feeds to the motel."
"And these guys?"
"Diversion -- the Air Force is so used to people like them coming out to the fence lines with booze and binoculars that they don't even bother sending the guards out to scare them off half the time. They might buzz them with a Pave Hawk, but for the most part the kids here are considered a pest problem -- annoying, but unthreatening."
"Is there anything you haven't thought of?"
Her expression darkens. "I hope not."
*
It's almost dawn when they finally get back to the motel, the sky lightening dangerously.
Shifting a laptop off the bed, Jack drops down onto it fully clothed, eyes closing before his head can even find the pillow. "You're cool for first shift, right?" he manages through a yawn. He feels like he's been awake for days.
"Yes, Jonah."
He's asleep before he can reply.
*
Carter wakes him around ten-hundred, barely waiting for him to sit up and stand up before she starts explaining the different feeds she has playing on three of her laptops. Each screen has been subdivided into four little windows, green-tinted images of the Base's interior and exterior running simultaneously. She stays with him only long enough to hand over her notebook and cup of coffee before retreating to the bed and curling up in the spot he's just vacated.
Rolling back his shoulders, Jack takes a seat at the table and reaches for the coffee.
"Okay," he mutters to himself, cracking his knuckles. "Let's see what we can see."
*
For three days they do nothing except study the Base feeds, even eating and sleeping in shifts so they can keep a twenty-four watch going. Despite the necessity of the activity, it's mind-numbing and endless and Jack almost cheers when they decide they have enough intel to break from the constant surveillance. If he never watches television again, it will be too soon.
"I wasn't expecting this much security," Carter admits, running a hand through her hair. "I figured on maybe a dozen men, two at most."
Jack stabs a piece of shrimp with one of his chopsticks. "A week ago, it probably was. Most of the guys out there now are new."
She frowns, shuffling through the notes they've made. "These guys aren't green."
He shakes his head. "New to the base." He points to the laptop between them that shows the external bugs. "Look at them. Most are sunburned and sweating, pacing directly into the sun. They haven't adapted to their location yet. They're recent transfers -- eager to get this duty over and done with ASAP so that they can get back to where they think the action is."
"He knew we'd come here."
Jack shrugs. "Maybe, maybe not. There's probably twice as much as this again back east. He'll be figuring us to go after him directly, storm the heart and cut out his gates."
"So this is all just in case? A what-if contingency plan?"
It's the first time he's heard her sound unsure since... actually, he can't remember the last time he heard her sound unsure. He shrugs again deliberately. "Would you trust us to do what's expected?"
*
He heads out for supplies first thing in the morning -- coffee and milk and maybe a beer, or two, if the town hasn't gone dry thanks to the 'flu -- and is surprised by the changes. A lot of the shopfronts are closed, the few people about on the streets all wearing face masks and taking extreme pains not to walk too close to anyone else. It's eerie and apocalyptic and when he looks down the main street, he thinks he can just make out a border patrol blocking off the north lane of the highway.
He heads back to the motel as quickly as he can.
*
"Cara?" Knocking on the door, he calls out as quietly as possible. "Hey, Cara?"
He can hear what sounds like voices inside; reaching behind him for his sidearm, he uses the key to unlock the door and move inside.
"Cara?"
She's sitting on the edge of the bed, wrapped in a towel and hair wet, but she doesn't even look his way as he shuts and locks the door behind him, dumping the bag of groceries on the chair near the door.
On the TV, the screen flicks between shots of soldiers and police, barricades and borders. "... the pandemic, citizens are advised to stay where they are. Interstate travel has been strictly forbidden, with many states further restricting travel between towns and counties in an effort to halt the spread of the H5N1 influenza."
The screen cuts back to the newsreader. "In other news, authorities are still searching for fugitive Samantha Carter," a picture appears in the top right-hand corner of the screen of Carter in dress blues, "the American scientist responsible for the deaths of five men and women from the United States Air Force, including that of her physician, Doctor Janet Frasier. Carter -- a former USAF officer herself -- is believed to be in the company of former Colonel Jack O'Neill. The two are considered armed and extremely dangerous. If you see these two, do not approach them; instead, notify authorities immediately by calling 1-800-555-5324. That number again, 1-800-555-5324."
He's still holding his gun. Flicking on the safety, he walks over and switches off the TV, turning to face Carter. She hasn't moved.
"Town's being quarantined," he says, "we'll need to head out tonight." He takes a step towards her, reaching out to touch her shoulder. "Cara? Did you hear me?"
She flinches, startling away from his almost touch. Her gaze meets his for a split second before skittering away again. "I heard you," she says quickly, standing up. "I -- I'm going to take a shower."
Another one? he thinks, but he says, "okay," softly, carefully not moving as she edges around him and into the bathroom, closing the door. He sighs. "Okay."
*
She stays in the bathroom for over an hour, the shower running for less than a quarter of that. He considers knocking on the door, checking on her, but decides against it each time. She'll come out when she's ready.
They've had their gear packed since their second night here, prepared for the worst case -- an unexpected knock on the door, a platoon of soldiers bearing down on them as per Daniel's orders -- but he checks them over again anyway, counting and recounting each share of knives and armaments. He's being obsessive but it's a familiar brand of insanity, one he remembers all too well from his life before the Stargate.
He opens one of the beers he'd managed to find earlier, before he realised they were out of time, and while he's not going to drink it -- alcohol is never a good idea prior to a mission -- if they do end up dying tonight, he wants one of his last memories to be that of sitting with a drink in his hand.
Carter emerges as he finishes repacking her gear, walking over to sit next to him on the bed, close enough for their shoulders to brush. She reaches for his bottle of beer and brings it to her mouth, sniffing twice, but she doesn't take a sip, just holds it.
"They decided to transfer me," she says quietly, "to a maximum security facility."
Saying nothing, he shifts her pack so that it's resting against his but otherwise doesn't move.
"Janet was there -- I think they'd brought her along for insurance, thinking I wouldn't try anything if she was in the van."
He tries to read between the lines. "She believed you?"
She shrugs. "Not that she ever told me. She was in the front with the driver; we weren't given any chances to talk. I was in the back with three SFs, cuffed and gagged."
He's able to picture this all too clearly for some reason, and tries to banish the image from his mind. "What happened?"
She shrugs again. "I don't remember, not exactly. I know we crashed, the vehicle overturning -- I must have blacked out because when I opened my eyes, everything was on its side. The guards with me were out of it, but I was able to reach a set of keys." She leans against him slowly, resting her head on his shoulder. "I ran."
"You think... did Janet cause the crash?"
"I don't -- I don't know." He feels the fine shudder that runs through her. "I think she was alive, though, afterwards."
"You didn't check?"
"I couldn't risk it," she admits softly. "If she didn't believe me -- if she really was okay and didn't believe me -- I don't know that I wouldn't have fought her to get away. It was safer not to look, to check -- to just... run."
"That newsreader --"
"The guards in the back were alive. Unconscious, but alive. If those men and women did die, it wasn't from the crash itself."
He knows what she's implying, but the idea -- the mere thought of it, even after everything else he's learned -- still goes against everything he believes. "Daniel wouldn't do that," he says, "I know he's the bad guy now, I do, but to kill five people -- to kill Janet -- for no other reason than to frame you...?"
She doesn't call him on his defence of their once friend. "Sometimes, I don't know what I believe anymore."
Slowly, almost cautiously, he reaches over and removes one of her hands from the bottle, wrapping his fingers around hers. Her palm is cool, damp with condensation; he holds on tight.
He clears his throat and says what he should have said six weeks ago. "I believe you."
*
They leave the motel as soon as it's dark, their exit a sharp reminder of how this all started -- Christ, he thinks suddenly, has it been a week already? has it only been a week?
Their car is ten miles out of town, past the newly erected blockade, parked there last night by Bobby and his friends, and Jack decides that if they do this, if they succeed, he will come back here one day and buy these kids drinks or dinner or something as a thank you (assuming, of course, he even remembers any of this once reality has been reset).
At the perimeter fencing, he stands guard while Carter creates an opening for them. She's already drawn a map showing the range of each motion sensor buried between here and the Base, their path plotted out to the nth degree. It will take them most of the night to get into the facility but they will get in. Of that he has no doubt.
"Ready?" Carter asks, lightly touching his shoulder.
He nods and grips his P90, his free hand brushing over the knives sheathed in his belt one last time. They've already agreed to use deadly force where necessary tonight and he knows, no matter how much he hates it, he will need them. "Ready."
She turns towards the fence and he reaches out at the last moment, stilling her movement. She looks back at him curiously.
His fingers touch her cheek, brushing a strand of too dark hair away from her eyes and behind her ear. He doesn't say anything.
Slowly, so slowly he almost thinks he's imagining it, she smiles, the expression slipping across her face in a way that's real and familiar and just like how he remembers. He has to force himself to drop his hand from her hair.
She takes it with hers, squeezing his fingers for the briefest moment before letting go and stepping away, stepping forward and breaching the perimeter.
"Come on, Sir," she says quietly, the words tossed over her shoulder. "Let's go save the world."
Yeah. Yeah, they can do that.
Flicking off the safety on his gun, he follows her through.
* * * * *
The End.
FEEDBACK: Always appreciated. *g*
STATUS: Complete
SUMMARY: He also feels like he could maybe hate her for knowing more than him right now, for acting so calm when their whole goddamned world is doing somersaults.
RATING: PG
CLASSIFICATIONS: Sam/Jack
SPOILERS: Absolute Power (4x17)
ARCHIVING: Do not archive. Thank you.
THANKS TO: nandamai for the betaing.
WORDS: 7,855
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Don't sue.
Copyright anr; May 2009.
* * * * *
The World Asunder by anr
* * * * *
After the launch (and subsequent destruction of Moscow, London and Beijing), Jack spends five weeks, three days, nineteen hours and some odd minutes in prison.
In hindsight, he probably should have set a tape for The Simpsons before he left home.
*
His release from prison is no stranger than his admittance to it. Jack listens to the man who claims to be his lawyer (Joe Flaxton? Faxon?) talk about things like house arrest and daily visits from a probationary officer but doesn't bother to ask any questions. His lawyer looks like he wouldn't even have the security clearance to pour coffee at the SGC, let alone be privy to the reasons why Jack O'Neill has just been given a (somewhat limited) get-out-of-jail-free card.
He's taken from the correctional facility to the airport under armed guard, the requisite ankle monitor already fitted. From there it's a red eye flight back to Colorado Springs and a prearranged ride back to his house.
As he stands at his living room window, watching the black van pull out of his driveway and leave, he sees a silver Taurus parked conspicuously outside Mrs Petersen's house.
"Welcome home, Jack," he mutters under his breath.
He doesn't believe for one second that he has been given his freedom.
*
He tries the TV first, needs news and information, needs it fast. His cable is out, but he's able to pull up the local stations.
Local weather. Earthquake relief efforts in south Peru. Colorado Springs Retirement Home Bake Sale this Saturday. Nicole Kidman and Tom Cruise divorce gossip. Suspected terrorist attacks at utilities plants across the midwest. National weather. Armed robbery in Denver. Beijing winning the 2008 summer Olympics bid. The upcoming Harry Potter movie. Public health warning reminders about bird 'flu.
He tries switching channels but it's the same across the board. Bird 'flu and bus strikes.
Turning off the TV, he heads to his front porch to collect his mail. Though it's tempting to wave, he ignores the Taurus still parked across the street.
He has five Newsweeks, one for each week he's been gone and each a complete waste of time -- or proof that he's living in some wacky alternate reality, he's not sure which. Even the oldest magazine, the one that would have come out just after he started his holiday at the Jail Chalet, has no mention of Daniel's satellites or the destruction of three of the most powerful cities in the world.
There's just page after page of local crap and some possibly killer strain of 'flu that's sweeping across the globe. He can't count how many articles there are talking about vaccinations and the need to avoid pigeon crap, about how international flights and imports have been temporarily restricted but the President is having a fabulous time touring the seven continents.
The most recent paper even has a picture of the President shaking hands with Vladimir Putin on the steps of the Kremlin Senate in Moscow. Moscow!
Closing his eyes, he throws the magazine as far as he can across the room.
His phone line is dead; he doesn't even bother turning on his computer.
*
There's no food in his kitchen, just a couple of new life-forms. He thinks he recognises the one in his crisper from P6J878.
No beer either; he's officially in hell.
*
In his bedroom, he sits on the edge of the bed and stares at his ankle monitor. There's no way he'll be able to remove it himself without setting it off -- that's Carter's area of expertise -- but there's always amputation. He wonders how far he'd be able to go with only one foot, a trail of blood marking his path, and decides to make that Plan B.
When he tries to figure out how far he can get before his probationary officer realises he's gone and turns to the monitor's tracking system (assuming they're not already examining his movements from lounge room to kitchen to bedroom), he decides it should be long enough for him to get to Daniel (at which point he'll probably be setting off alarms anyway).
There's an old chocolate tin in the corner of his wardrobe. Opening it, he digs out a wad of cash and tosses it from hand to hand, thinking. He'll need a vehicle. Weapons. He can steal the former and buy the latter -- getting his hands on some C4 might be a bit of a problem but the guns and knives will be easy enough -- and he should still have a pair of night vision goggles lying around somewhere.
He decides not to work out his overall chance of success; the whole thing is depressing enough already.
*
It doesn't take him very long to pack a duffel -- change of clothes, the sidearm he had in the tin along with a three-quarters full box of cartridges, the goggles and a survival knife -- but it's still light out, not quite twilight yet, so he has some time to kill. He'll leave when it's dark and bank on the fact that no one will be expecting him to run his first night out of prison.
Two steps into his bathroom, however, he stops short and wonders if maybe he might have to start rethinking Plan A.
"Car--"
She moves quicker than he remembers, stepping forward to slap her hand across his mouth, her other hand reaching into the shower beside him and turning on the faucet, hard. Tugging him further into the room, she shuts the door behind him and then backs him up against it, her fingers tight on his shoulders.
"I'm not crazy," she says, her voice barely audible over the rush of water in his shower, and it's not a question, he knows it's not, but that doesn't stop him from answering.
"That depends," he says, "am I?"
*
She's looked better.
"After Moscow, London and Beijing, Daniel demanded that the President cede all control over to him. The President refused, and Daniel sent a warning strike into the Atlantic ocean, fifty miles off the Manhattan coastline. It worked."
Thin cut running above the collar of her t-shirt, not-quite-hidden bruises on her upper arms and wrists. Her jeans are too big.
"He went after the United Nations next and was likewise met with resistance, pointless as it was. Iran, France, Australia and Germany were attacked the moment their fighters hit the tarmac. The reasons why Rome and Switzerland were taken out have not been made clear."
Bead of sweat running down her hairline, no makeup, hair finger-combed. When he looks in the mirror behind her, he can see the impression of a handgun in the small of her back underneath her t-shirt.
"How do you know all this?"
"The internet. They might have control of the newspapers, magazines, radio stations and television studios, but the 'net is --"
He waves blindly towards the bathroom door. "The newspapers --"
She nods. "Censored."
He rolls his eyes. "Obviously. What I was going to ask is what's with all the bird 'flu talk? Coincidence or cover up?"
She shrugs. "My guess is it's a cover up, a way to keep the population quarantined and not asking too many questions about what's really happening. They're providing way too much information for it to be a real epidemic -- almost running off at the mouth. If there really was a disease ravaging the planet, there's no way it would be this well publicised."
"We'd be reading about it on the internet instead."
"Exactly."
"But if the internet's telling everyone what's really going on --"
She shakes her head. "They're not. Or, rather, they're not anymore. Anyone who talks too loudly quickly finds themself a victim of the supposed 'flu. Most of it's being whispered about in chat rooms and forums, the actual information buried under layers of code and netspeak. Those who do know are fast learning how to be circumspect."
"Aren't people suspicious? Surely there are people here with families or friends overseas, getting in contact with them and --"
"The mail's controlled, everything coming in and out censored. All cable networks have been shut down -- a post-Y2K bug if you're stupid enough to believe the party line. Telephone lines and cell signals are hazy at best. You either can't get a connection or, if you do, it'll cut out as soon as you say anything even remotely interesting."
He's in shock, he thinks. At least technically. Daniel's betrayal, the long weeks spent in isolation and his unexpected release, finding her in his bathroom and this anti-fairytale she's now force-feeding him. "You realise this all makes very little sense, right? The resources alone they would need to isolate America like this --"
She shrugs again. "Tell me what does make sense then."
*
He sits on the edge of his bed and watches her work, her head bowed and nudging his knee as he holds the penlight for her. Her fingers are light on his ankle as she works to remove the monitor, brief flashes of silver winking in the thin beam of light as she wields her tools.
"I'm here because of you," he says quietly, his free hand hovering above her head, carefully not touching her. "Because you escaped."
She doesn't react to his words, but he knows she's listening.
"Because you can stop him."
There's a soft snick as the ankle monitor falls free. Neither of them move.
"I'm your bait."
She looks up, her head tipping back to press against his palm.
"Yes."
*
Carter moves through his house like a thief, clinging to the walls and shadows, ducking down low when she has to move past a window. She gestures with hand signals that he shouldn't mimic her.
They're in his kitchen when his TV suddenly switches on, The Simpsons theme song startling him as he leans against his fridge and watches her attach his ankle monitor to what looks like a miniature MALP. His sidearm is in his hands before Bart would have even cleared the school steps.
She doesn't even flinch. "Timer," she says softly, not looking up from what she's doing. "I set it while I was waiting for you."
A hundred questions he wants to ask her, a hundred things he doesn't understand yet, can't quite work out. He feels like he's trying to put together a jigsaw puzzle that's missing three-quarters of its pieces and the cover that shows him what it's all supposed to look like in the end.
He also feels like he could maybe hate her for knowing more than him right now, for acting so calm when their whole goddamned world is doing somersaults.
Putting down the screwdriver, she sets the mini-MALP on the ground and flicks a switch. With a soft whir, the device drives itself slowly out of the kitchen and into his living room.
"I preprogrammed it with the layout of your house," she says, clearing the table. "It will move from room to room at random intervals, giving anyone monitoring you the illusion that you're still in here."
She looks up at him when he doesn't say anything. Slowly, he clicks the safety back on his sidearm.
"I always liked this episode," he says.
*
He watches her leave the house, weaving through the shadows as she moves across his yard and disappears into the tree line that backs his property. He follows after an appropriate delay.
"We need to head northeast," she says when he's at her side, "I have a car."
He nods, readjusting the duffel on his back as she starts to walk away, picking her path through the leaf litter carefully. When he glances back at his house one last time, his bathroom light flicks on.
He stops, surprised, and watches. A minute later, the light switches off again and a few moments after that, his kitchen light turns on.
Carter's watching him, apparently unconcerned with the fact that someone is in his house already, using his bathroom and...
Right. "Timer?" he asks unnecessarily, and she points behind her.
"We should stick to the trees until we clear your block."
He gestures widely. "After you."
*
Carter leads him to a parked car, five miles from his house. Once inside, she reaches into the glovebox and pulls out two envelopes, handing him one. When he opens it, a drivers licence and social security card fall out.
"Jonah Matthews," he reads, running his thumb over the plastic surface. It feels real. "Jonah?"
She nods. "P3R118. I figured you'd respond better to an alias you've had familiarity with."
"Oh." He watches as she pulls out her own IDs. "And you are?"
"Cara Matthews."
"Cara," he repeats, testing it out. "Cara."
"Thera was too unique, and this at least sounds similar enough to Carter should one of us slip."
He watches her slip her licence into her pocket and start the car, shifting into first gear.
"How long have you've been planning this?"
She doesn't look at him. "Since Teal'c," she says shortly.
Christ, he thinks. That long? He knows she's a genius and all -- has relied on that fact more times than he can remember over the years -- but still. Is she some kind of psychic now? "How did you --" He stops when he realises he can't decide how best to finish that sentence.
How did she know that Daniel would take over the world?
That there would eventually be sides -- her's and Daniel's -- and that he would choose her's?
That, one day, they would need all this -- fake IDs and escape vehicles and god knows what else -- to try and make things right again?
Flicking on the headlights, she pulls out onto the street. "Nobody gets left behind," she says simply. "You taught us that." She glances at him quickly, looking away again the moment he tries to hold her gaze. "When Daniel forgot it, I knew."
*
They drive the long way to the New Mexico border, avoiding the highways and toll roads. In Garcia they stop at a twenty-four-hour fast food joint. The place is mostly empty and they pick a table somewhere between the counter and the exit. While she collects a handful of paper napkins, he drips soda on the chairs of the tables nearby to discourage anybody from sitting too close.
"How'd you get out?"
It's just one of the many questions that have been bugging him ever since he walked into his bathroom and found her standing there, waiting for him, and he plays with his french fries as he waits for her to answer.
"I don't want to talk about it," she says shortly, wiping her mouth and hands on a paper napkin and, despite his curiosity, something in her voice tells him not to push.
He starts building a fry pyramid. "Where are we headed?"
"Right now? Mexico."
He'd already figured that one out himself -- Survival Tactics 101, never travel directly to your destination. "And then?"
"Nevada."
He looks up, surprised. "Daniel's back east."
"I know."
"So's his satellite command centre."
"I know."
"Then why --"
"We need to contact the Asgard in a different reality," she explains, "and then get them to send us back to our Asgard. Hopefully Thor will help us locate a sun flare so that we can send a message back in time and fix this."
Different... "You're talking about the quantum mirror," he says slowly, "crossing dimensions."
She takes a sip of her soda. "Yes."
"Okay," he says, "but why not just contact our Thor first? Cut out the middle di-men-sioning?"
She shakes her head; starts turning her soda cup in slow circles. "Daniel had both 'gates deactivated once he had enough naquadah for the satellites. I'd need prolonged access to reactivate one and somehow I don't see his security details letting me do that."
"And even if we could call someone to come pick us up," he says, following her train of thought, "the satellites would catch them as soon as they got too close."
"Right. Same thing as if we tried to fly out using one of the 301's."
He runs out of fries before he can complete his pyramid; changing designs, he starts creating his own Stargate. "Didn't Hammond order that mirror be destroyed?"
She nods. "It was scheduled for destruction last year -- I'm hoping Daniel's reprioritisation efforts screwed up their project as much as it did ours."
Not the most solid plan they've ever had, he thinks, but maybe still better than nothing. "Plan B?" he asks.
"We grab the mimic devices instead and red eye it back to Daniel's."
Mimic devices, mimic devices... "Those makeover doohickeys the alien lizards brought home?"
"Yes."
Direct action, nice. "I think I like Plan B better." He sits back in his chair. "In fact, I think we should make Plan B, Plan A."
"To what end?" He watches her lean forward in her chair, expression suddenly stern. "If we go after Daniel at least one of us will succeed in stopping him, yes, but the damage he's caused will remain."
It really bugs him, sometimes, when she's right. He breaks a fry in half.
"Plan C?"
"Haven't got that far yet."
He finishes off his soda. "Here's to the first two then."
*
They drive through the night, and most of the next day, deliberately tripling their travel time by taking the back roads and scenic routes. For a couple of hours they even loop back north towards Colorado. Anything to keep them off the more patrolled roadways.
Fifty odd miles from the Mexico border, they rent a motel room for the night.
*
Carter dyes her hair in the motel sink, rivulets of muddy coloured water dripping down the back of her neck and patterning the already stained tiles.
"You should do the same," she says when she's finished, tossing the ruined towel onto the floor.
You look different enough for the both of us, he thinks. He has to stop himself from reaching out and touching the dark strands feathering her cheek. "I'll think about it."
*
While Carter grabs a few hours sleep, he heads out to buy supplies.
Clothes for both of them, some soda, bread and sandwich meats for later, half a dozen knives and two Glock 9mm's. When his FBI/NICS check passes with flying colours (somehow, Jack's not surprised to find that Jonah Matthews has a permit to carry a concealed weapon), the owner takes twenty percent off the price of cartridges for him.
Back at the motel, he sits at the small table in the corner of the room, stripping and cleaning the guns. The TV is on in the background, some mocumentary about cartoon violence (occasionally they show snippets from The Simpsons), but Carter's still asleep so he keeps the volume low.
The news comes on eventually, mostly local crap and not at all interesting, until he hears his name. Looking up, he finds himself staring at his own image.
"... of the US Air Force..."
The snapshot of him in BDU's blurs into a grainy video of a military action -- Jack seriously doubts the soldiers running around, shooting blindly at indistinct targets, are even USAF let alone related in some way to one of his missions. Cutting back to the anchorwoman, she offers up some quotes (supposedly from his former superiors) regarding his mental state (poor), his record (worse), and his propensity for violence (high), some of which are most definitely exaggerated.
When she mentions Charlie, he turns off the TV and wakes Carter.
*
They head west out of New Mexico and into Arizona, beginning a slow curve up towards the Nevada border. Every couple of hours they stop and play tourist, asking for directions on how to get to San Diego or Los Angeles. He doubts their false trail of breadcrumbs will really fool anyone, but neither can he think of a better plan; as much as he hates to admit it, he's not prepared for this.
They switch vehicles in a trailer park near Safford that looks like it hasn't had much business in recent months, if not years. It's dawn, the sun just starting to crest the horizon, and he stands watch while Carter hotwires a car for them.
"You know, if this was a movie, we'd get something better than a Volvo." He can't keep the distaste out of his voice.
She snorts. "If this was a movie, we'd have more than three cars to choose from."
The car coughs to life with a sick splutter; it'll be a miracle if it even makes it out of the park. He watches her get out and walk around to the other side.
"Next time," he says, sliding into the drivers seat, "we're getting something cooler. Like a Ferrari."
She unfolds the map, hiding what he's sure is an eye roll. "Yes, Jonah."
*
"I kept getting reassigned, tasked to head project after project but never to completion."
Keeping his eyes on the road, he feels her shift in her seat. She's facing the window, hands pillowing her cheek against the glass, and until a moment ago he'd thought her asleep.
"As soon as each development reached UAT, I would be pulled off and sent on to the next." She huffs out what he thinks might be the beginnings of a laugh. "I accrued more frequent flyer miles in those eight months than I did during my entire assignment in the Gulf War."
He considers making a joke, seeing if he can't turn that fraction of a laugh into a smile, a smile like the ones she used to give him, but she continues before he has the chance to decide.
"I thought..." She shakes her head. "It was exciting, you know? Cutting edge technology, limitless funding, and the science -- man, the science was incredible. We were developing the most advanced defence system in the universe and I -- I was the person in charge of getting each division up and running..."
He overtakes a truck, watching it gradually diminish in his rear vision mirror.
"Daniel said I was needed, necessary, that I couldn't devote myself to just one application, not when the safety of the world was at stake."
He glances at her, her quiet -- sad -- tone like ice on the back of his neck. "You are necessary, Carter," he says quietly. "You're always --"
"Cara," she corrects automatically, softly, cutting him off. She shakes her head. "He was using me, spinning me from assignment to assignment as soon as I got each stage started so I wouldn't piece it all together and figure out his intentions."
"But you did." His hands tighten on the steering wheel. "You did figure it out." He glances at her again, but he doesn't think she's listening to him. "Car-- Cara --"
Curling further against the door, she sighs. "I thought he was my friend."
*
They stop briefly for gas just inside Vegas, Carter ducking inside for supplies while he fills them up. It's the most populated area they've been in since leaving Colorado Springs and neither of them are particularly happy with the stop; the number of people at the gas station alone is enough to make him apprehensive, not to mention the fact that he can see at least half a dozen people wearing surgical face masks (which, initially, he had thought would be a great way to blend in, until he'd also seen a passing patrol car slow down to a crawl next to a car containing a masked couple).
He's relieved when they're back on the road, unchallenged and uncaught.
"Cara?" He has to remind himself to use the correct name, the letters rolling off his tongue a little unevenly.
"Hmm?"
Leaning between the seats, he snags one of the bottles of water she'd bought. "On the off chance we are insane, and a killer 'flu really is sweeping the globe, promise me you'll never make me wear one of those mask things."
She smirks and checks her blind spot, overtaking a campervan. "You'd rather catch the plague and die?"
"Hmm -- death or Michael Jackson homage, death or -- yeah, I'm thinking death's the better option there." Noticing her outstretched hand, he passes her the water bottle.
"Thanks." She drinks. "Guess it's a good thing you're not insane then."
"Yeah." Taking the bottle back, he tries for a smile. "Guess so."
*
Before they can leave the city proper, Carter detours into a Storage West, pulling up outside what looks like a decent sized unit. He has a fair idea of what they'll find inside -- she's not the only one who's been trained for this -- so he's not too surprised when she opens it up.
"Been doing a bit of shopping in the black, I take it."
Grabbing what looks like three laptop bags, she shrugs. "You know how I despise retail."
Toeing one of the larger plastic containers -- C4? P90's? a naquadah-enhanced bomb? he wouldn't put any of the options past her -- he rolls his eyes. "Right."
*
They hit the town of Alamo at twilight, Carter directing him to pull into a motel parking lot off the highway. As he kills the engine, she opens the glovebox and pulls out her gun, fingers flicking off the safety before she slides it down the back of her jeans, tugging her t-shirt back into place.
"Stay here," she says shortly, opening her door.
Yeah, right. He undoes his seatbelt and turns to open his own door, freezing only at the sudden press of her fingers on his arm. Her grip is hard, the tips of her fingernails digging through his shirt.
"Stay," she repeats, glaring, "here," and though everything in him is telling him to get out of the car, to disagree -- maybe even remind her of their ranks -- something in her expression forces him to remember: this is her show.
Her show, her rules, and he wouldn't even be here right now if it weren't for her...
He sinks back in his seat slowly, looking away from her and removing his hand from the door handle, waiting for her to remove her own hand.
When she gets out, she slams the door shut.
*
She's gone about ten minutes, returning with directions. "Room ten," she says, leaning in his open window and handing him a key, "park round the back."
She pecks a swift kiss on his lips, pulling back and walking away before he can do little more than blink.
He watches her walk away, his hand moving on autopilot to turn the key still sitting in the ignition, mind blanking.
Her show.
*
He finds the room easy enough, parking in front of the door. He leaves the majority of their gear in the car, taking with him only their backpacks and duffel. Though he can't see anyone -- there's no one outside, and most of the other room windows are curtained -- that doesn't mean no one's watching.
Inside, he twitches the curtains closed before retrieving his own Glock. There's a small table with three chairs, and he takes a seat on the one just off from the door, facing forward and hands on his thighs, gun ready and waiting.
He doesn't have to wait long.
She knocks twice on the door but doesn't enter, waiting for him to let her in, and if he hadn't already been spun in a thousand different directions since first meeting her five years ago, her appearance now would easily be enough to turn his head.
"Nice look," he says, scanning the parking lot behind her before shutting and chaining the door. He turns back in time to watch her toss a second face mask on the table before pulling her own off.
"Most of the town's wearing them," she says, running a hand through her hair. "It's more conspicuous not to now."
Welcome to Neverland, he thinks, placing his gun on top of the masks on the table. "Motel owner tell you that?"
"He very strongly recommended I get some, yeah," she says, and he knows he should hear the words, or else we can't stay here, unspoken at the end, but her reaction to him trying to leave the car earlier makes him suspect she's had this motel booked, ready and waiting, for too long to let something like a (fake) epidemic interfere with that plan.
"You get any food?"
She shakes her head. "There were a couple of uniforms outside the supermarket; didn't want to risk it. We can try and pick something up later, maybe."
He nods and steps towards the bathroom, tugging his shirt over his head. "I'm gonna take a shower."
She's already digging through the bags on the bed, pulling out a laptop. "Save me some hot water, yeah?"
He tosses his shirt over the back of a chair. "Yeah."
*
By mutual agreement they decide to stay in. The takeout place initially tries to refuse delivery when Jack calls up -- how do we know y'all aren't snifflin' over there at the no-tell, dude? freakin' bird 'flu's already flyin' south, you know -- but eventually a promise to triple the tip changes their mind.
"Whole world's going to shit and I'm getting fleeced over a ten dollar pizza," he mutters, hanging up. "Fucking typical."
Carter doesn't even look up from her laptop. "Let it go, Jonah."
And stop calling me Jonah. Biting the words back -- he never thought he'd miss the word 'Sir' falling from her lips -- he heads to the door. "I'm going for ice."
She shrugs. "Don't forget your mask."
Now it's his turn to slam the door.
*
He takes fifteen minutes, dragging his footsteps, aware the entire time that he's being selfish, that he's risking too much, almost daring someone to see him without a mask, and yet --
*
He gets back to their room the same time as the pizza, handing over his money -- forty bucks for one pie? maybe he should let the world end -- and wishing now he'd taken the stupid face mask.
"You look real familiar, dude," the kid tells him, staring blatantly, "you come to the Alamo often?"
"Oh, you know." Jack shrugs, a cold pit of fear building inside his stomach as he pretends to fumble with the room key. He has no intention of knocking on the door with the kid here -- God knows how he would explain the laptops and assorted equipment Carter's already got set up without him running off to find the nearest cop. "Good night."
The kid shrugs. "Nigh--" His eyes widen suddenly. "Cara girl!"
Looking over his shoulder, Jack winces as he realises Carter has opened the door behind him, enough of her toys on show to spread a hundred rumours, none of them good.
"Hey, Bobby." Carter gives the kid a bright, bright smile that Jack doesn't buy for a minute. "How goes it?"
"Conspiracy central, girl. Been wonderin' when you were goin' to show up."
"Oh, you know me." Taking the pizza from Jack, she opens it up and sniffs appreciatively. "When the black 'copters start buzzing..."
Bobby nods. "Word." He nods to Jack. "So this is Jonah, eh? Steve's gonna be super pissed he's real and all."
Carter snorts. "Steve needs to lay off the weed." She raises an eyebrow. "You too, I imagine."
Grinning, Bobby shrugs. "Nothin' wrong with expanding the mind, girl. 'If we value the pursuit of knowledge, we must be free to follow wherever that search may lead us.'"
"Yeah, I'm pretty sure Stevenson wasn't talking about the searching along the light fantastic when he said that."
"Whatever." Bobby turns as if to go, pausing before he actually can. "Hey, that reminds me -- we're headin' over to Rach-west later tonight for a scope; you and the ol' man in?"
Carter nods. "In."
"Awesome."
With a wave, Bobby turns and leaves, Carter backing into the room with the pizza. Jack waits until the kid's tail lights have cleared the parking lot before shutting the door and following her.
"'Cara girl'?" he repeats, eyebrow raised. He takes the piece of pie she hands him.
She nods. "Several of the projects Daniel tasked me with were based out of Nellis -- it was here I first began piecing together what he was trying to accomplish."
Picking a piece of olive off his slice, he drops it into the box. "That doesn't explain --"
"I started coming out here to think -- I kept hoping that if I could just clear my head, get some perspective away from the Base, I'd be able to put away my fears. I'd realise I was wrong and that there was no way Daniel could be doing what I thought he was doing."
"Instead you realised the opposite," he says.
She nods. "I knew then I'd need a cover here, a back story -- that's how I met Bobby and his friends."
"You chose a group of stoners for your cover deliberately?"
She shrugs. "They're not quite that bad. They like to talk big and buy into the stereotype but it's mainly just a show for the tourists. The majority of their conspiracy knowledge comes from X Files repeats."
"If they're not the real thing, how are they any help?"
"They're college students," she says simply. "They'll do anything for a dare and fifty bucks."
*
A little after midnight they leave the motel and meet up with Bobby, Steve, Ahmed and Lisa, the kids driving them out towards Rachel but veering off to the west a little before they actually reach the town itself.
They seem like decent enough kids, despite the fact that he's pretty sure all of them are at least a little baked and he has no idea how they all seem to know who he is.
"Steve," Carter says quietly, nodding to the slight, Asian guy throwing stones from the back of the pick up they're riding in, "kept trying to hit on me the first couple of times. I made up a husband back home to let him down gently."
Well, that explains the kiss when they'd arrived; she was solidifying his cover. "Anything else I should know?"
"No, that pretty much covers it."
"Cool." He doesn't fully believe her, but that's a discussion for another time. "So, what's the plan tonight?"
She shifts the laptop she's carrying. "Before Daniel had me removed from the project, I planted a series of bugs around the Base. Assuming no one's found them, I just need to set up a link from the perimeter and we'll have live feeds to the motel."
"And these guys?"
"Diversion -- the Air Force is so used to people like them coming out to the fence lines with booze and binoculars that they don't even bother sending the guards out to scare them off half the time. They might buzz them with a Pave Hawk, but for the most part the kids here are considered a pest problem -- annoying, but unthreatening."
"Is there anything you haven't thought of?"
Her expression darkens. "I hope not."
*
It's almost dawn when they finally get back to the motel, the sky lightening dangerously.
Shifting a laptop off the bed, Jack drops down onto it fully clothed, eyes closing before his head can even find the pillow. "You're cool for first shift, right?" he manages through a yawn. He feels like he's been awake for days.
"Yes, Jonah."
He's asleep before he can reply.
*
Carter wakes him around ten-hundred, barely waiting for him to sit up and stand up before she starts explaining the different feeds she has playing on three of her laptops. Each screen has been subdivided into four little windows, green-tinted images of the Base's interior and exterior running simultaneously. She stays with him only long enough to hand over her notebook and cup of coffee before retreating to the bed and curling up in the spot he's just vacated.
Rolling back his shoulders, Jack takes a seat at the table and reaches for the coffee.
"Okay," he mutters to himself, cracking his knuckles. "Let's see what we can see."
*
For three days they do nothing except study the Base feeds, even eating and sleeping in shifts so they can keep a twenty-four watch going. Despite the necessity of the activity, it's mind-numbing and endless and Jack almost cheers when they decide they have enough intel to break from the constant surveillance. If he never watches television again, it will be too soon.
"I wasn't expecting this much security," Carter admits, running a hand through her hair. "I figured on maybe a dozen men, two at most."
Jack stabs a piece of shrimp with one of his chopsticks. "A week ago, it probably was. Most of the guys out there now are new."
She frowns, shuffling through the notes they've made. "These guys aren't green."
He shakes his head. "New to the base." He points to the laptop between them that shows the external bugs. "Look at them. Most are sunburned and sweating, pacing directly into the sun. They haven't adapted to their location yet. They're recent transfers -- eager to get this duty over and done with ASAP so that they can get back to where they think the action is."
"He knew we'd come here."
Jack shrugs. "Maybe, maybe not. There's probably twice as much as this again back east. He'll be figuring us to go after him directly, storm the heart and cut out his gates."
"So this is all just in case? A what-if contingency plan?"
It's the first time he's heard her sound unsure since... actually, he can't remember the last time he heard her sound unsure. He shrugs again deliberately. "Would you trust us to do what's expected?"
*
He heads out for supplies first thing in the morning -- coffee and milk and maybe a beer, or two, if the town hasn't gone dry thanks to the 'flu -- and is surprised by the changes. A lot of the shopfronts are closed, the few people about on the streets all wearing face masks and taking extreme pains not to walk too close to anyone else. It's eerie and apocalyptic and when he looks down the main street, he thinks he can just make out a border patrol blocking off the north lane of the highway.
He heads back to the motel as quickly as he can.
*
"Cara?" Knocking on the door, he calls out as quietly as possible. "Hey, Cara?"
He can hear what sounds like voices inside; reaching behind him for his sidearm, he uses the key to unlock the door and move inside.
"Cara?"
She's sitting on the edge of the bed, wrapped in a towel and hair wet, but she doesn't even look his way as he shuts and locks the door behind him, dumping the bag of groceries on the chair near the door.
On the TV, the screen flicks between shots of soldiers and police, barricades and borders. "... the pandemic, citizens are advised to stay where they are. Interstate travel has been strictly forbidden, with many states further restricting travel between towns and counties in an effort to halt the spread of the H5N1 influenza."
The screen cuts back to the newsreader. "In other news, authorities are still searching for fugitive Samantha Carter," a picture appears in the top right-hand corner of the screen of Carter in dress blues, "the American scientist responsible for the deaths of five men and women from the United States Air Force, including that of her physician, Doctor Janet Frasier. Carter -- a former USAF officer herself -- is believed to be in the company of former Colonel Jack O'Neill. The two are considered armed and extremely dangerous. If you see these two, do not approach them; instead, notify authorities immediately by calling 1-800-555-5324. That number again, 1-800-555-5324."
He's still holding his gun. Flicking on the safety, he walks over and switches off the TV, turning to face Carter. She hasn't moved.
"Town's being quarantined," he says, "we'll need to head out tonight." He takes a step towards her, reaching out to touch her shoulder. "Cara? Did you hear me?"
She flinches, startling away from his almost touch. Her gaze meets his for a split second before skittering away again. "I heard you," she says quickly, standing up. "I -- I'm going to take a shower."
Another one? he thinks, but he says, "okay," softly, carefully not moving as she edges around him and into the bathroom, closing the door. He sighs. "Okay."
*
She stays in the bathroom for over an hour, the shower running for less than a quarter of that. He considers knocking on the door, checking on her, but decides against it each time. She'll come out when she's ready.
They've had their gear packed since their second night here, prepared for the worst case -- an unexpected knock on the door, a platoon of soldiers bearing down on them as per Daniel's orders -- but he checks them over again anyway, counting and recounting each share of knives and armaments. He's being obsessive but it's a familiar brand of insanity, one he remembers all too well from his life before the Stargate.
He opens one of the beers he'd managed to find earlier, before he realised they were out of time, and while he's not going to drink it -- alcohol is never a good idea prior to a mission -- if they do end up dying tonight, he wants one of his last memories to be that of sitting with a drink in his hand.
Carter emerges as he finishes repacking her gear, walking over to sit next to him on the bed, close enough for their shoulders to brush. She reaches for his bottle of beer and brings it to her mouth, sniffing twice, but she doesn't take a sip, just holds it.
"They decided to transfer me," she says quietly, "to a maximum security facility."
Saying nothing, he shifts her pack so that it's resting against his but otherwise doesn't move.
"Janet was there -- I think they'd brought her along for insurance, thinking I wouldn't try anything if she was in the van."
He tries to read between the lines. "She believed you?"
She shrugs. "Not that she ever told me. She was in the front with the driver; we weren't given any chances to talk. I was in the back with three SFs, cuffed and gagged."
He's able to picture this all too clearly for some reason, and tries to banish the image from his mind. "What happened?"
She shrugs again. "I don't remember, not exactly. I know we crashed, the vehicle overturning -- I must have blacked out because when I opened my eyes, everything was on its side. The guards with me were out of it, but I was able to reach a set of keys." She leans against him slowly, resting her head on his shoulder. "I ran."
"You think... did Janet cause the crash?"
"I don't -- I don't know." He feels the fine shudder that runs through her. "I think she was alive, though, afterwards."
"You didn't check?"
"I couldn't risk it," she admits softly. "If she didn't believe me -- if she really was okay and didn't believe me -- I don't know that I wouldn't have fought her to get away. It was safer not to look, to check -- to just... run."
"That newsreader --"
"The guards in the back were alive. Unconscious, but alive. If those men and women did die, it wasn't from the crash itself."
He knows what she's implying, but the idea -- the mere thought of it, even after everything else he's learned -- still goes against everything he believes. "Daniel wouldn't do that," he says, "I know he's the bad guy now, I do, but to kill five people -- to kill Janet -- for no other reason than to frame you...?"
She doesn't call him on his defence of their once friend. "Sometimes, I don't know what I believe anymore."
Slowly, almost cautiously, he reaches over and removes one of her hands from the bottle, wrapping his fingers around hers. Her palm is cool, damp with condensation; he holds on tight.
He clears his throat and says what he should have said six weeks ago. "I believe you."
*
They leave the motel as soon as it's dark, their exit a sharp reminder of how this all started -- Christ, he thinks suddenly, has it been a week already? has it only been a week?
Their car is ten miles out of town, past the newly erected blockade, parked there last night by Bobby and his friends, and Jack decides that if they do this, if they succeed, he will come back here one day and buy these kids drinks or dinner or something as a thank you (assuming, of course, he even remembers any of this once reality has been reset).
At the perimeter fencing, he stands guard while Carter creates an opening for them. She's already drawn a map showing the range of each motion sensor buried between here and the Base, their path plotted out to the nth degree. It will take them most of the night to get into the facility but they will get in. Of that he has no doubt.
"Ready?" Carter asks, lightly touching his shoulder.
He nods and grips his P90, his free hand brushing over the knives sheathed in his belt one last time. They've already agreed to use deadly force where necessary tonight and he knows, no matter how much he hates it, he will need them. "Ready."
She turns towards the fence and he reaches out at the last moment, stilling her movement. She looks back at him curiously.
His fingers touch her cheek, brushing a strand of too dark hair away from her eyes and behind her ear. He doesn't say anything.
Slowly, so slowly he almost thinks he's imagining it, she smiles, the expression slipping across her face in a way that's real and familiar and just like how he remembers. He has to force himself to drop his hand from her hair.
She takes it with hers, squeezing his fingers for the briefest moment before letting go and stepping away, stepping forward and breaching the perimeter.
"Come on, Sir," she says quietly, the words tossed over her shoulder. "Let's go save the world."
Yeah. Yeah, they can do that.
Flicking off the safety on his gun, he follows her through.
* * * * *
The End.
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