"How is it that you always manage to come up with the worst case scenario?" / "I practice."
In a few hours, Nathan Cwirko might be dead. If he's not dead, there's still an even chance something will go wrong and he'll never see his home, let alone Earth, again. But his mind's not on that - not completely, anyway - as he marches up the ramp with the rest of Col. Everett's team to relieve Atlantis from the Wraith attack: it's on the fact that they've got people out there trapped behind enemy lines, and hell if he doesn't know something about how that feels. He's got his kit, he's got his comrades, and he's got a P-90 in his hands, and he's stepping through the Stargate to save the day.
...and then he's in an alley.
Cwirko has seen the vids from Atlantis, and Atlantis doesn't look like this. Not even a bit. Not to mention that Col. Everett isn't here, nor anyone else, and when he turns back, there's not a Stargate for him to have come out of.
He might not be as hands-down brilliant as some people in the SGC, but Cwirko knows that doesn't happen. If the wormhole dies in the gate, or if the other gate is lost, or if anything, you don't just pop out somewhere random - you die. The Gate is what puts you back together from all your little atomic parts. No Gate means no you, and yet, here he is. In an alley, in the dark.
He turns, scoping the area before his hand goes to his radio and he checks; "This is Lt. Col. Cwirko. Anyone read me?"
No answer. Of course he wouldn't be that lucky.
He edges down the alley, pausing to toe at a newspaper on the ground. It looks like it's been there for a couple of days, grimy and torn, but he kneels down and searches for a date and reads Chicago Sun-Times, August 22, 2010.
He looks up, taking in the alley with renewed apprehension. "You have got to be shitting me."
He stands, edging down the alley again. He gets to the mouth and looks around - yeah, looks like Chicago, for all that he's never been there; kinda run-down and ratty part of town, but it has the same crappy Midwest restaurants and gas station chains and the cars parked one place or another have Illinois plates, and he can barely see the stars, there's so much light pollution. He hears someone walking down the street and looks toward the footsteps as they draw near. Tally: one young guy, wearing a polo shirt and jeans, tips of his hair bleached blond, staring at him with his mouth hanging open.
"Oh, man, shit! That all for paintball or somethin'?"
Cwirko raises his eyebrows. Here he is, off to save his friends and comrades halfway across the damn universe on the biggest, most secret mission the Earth has ever known, except he's in Chicago in the future for no good reason and some pimply college kid is giving him lip about his gear.
"I'm a Lieutenant Colonel in the United States Air Force, and you will know I'm paintballing because there'll be seven shades of blue on your pretty face," he snaps. He doesn't have time for this, and he's already getting the feeling that there's no love lost between him and this kid. "You mind telling me what the hell is going on?"
"Yeeah," the kid says, eying him. "You're a wanderer." He steps closer, pointing at something over Cwirko's shoulder. "You fell through the Rift..."
And Cwirko makes the mistake of looking.
The next thing he knows there's a flap and the kid's hands are tight around his neck and he's fighting back, breaking the grip, throwing the guy back on instinct. He turns, getting his rifle up-
-and the motherfucker has wings.
He comes at Cwirko again, too damn fast for any human to move, and Cwirko has one round off from his P-90 (he keeps it on single-shot; still can't bring himself to waste ammo) and the kid yowls and falls down before Cwirko has a chance to think about reacting. All automatic. Shit! He hadn't meant to do that - didn't need to go around shooting civs, even if they were alien fucking morons jumping Air Force colonels, and he kneels down to check the injury.
The blood coming out of the bullethole is white, milky-shiny, and what the fuck is that supposed to mean? That one guy, with his robotic duplicates; hadn't they had-? Or wasn't there that one species on P4R-234-? Or-?
He searches the kid's pockets for a mobile phone to call 911. No such luck. With an abbreviated curse, he pulls out a field dressing and starts in on the wound. "All right, hang on, you bastard." All he wants are some answers, but he'd better make sure he didn't kill this idiot, first.
So now he's on his knees, trying to stop some winged twentysomething from bleeding out on the pavement, staunching the flow of white blood, and wishing anyone would come and tell him what's going on. In a way that didn't involve trying to strangle him.
Any takers, Chicago?
...and then he's in an alley.
Cwirko has seen the vids from Atlantis, and Atlantis doesn't look like this. Not even a bit. Not to mention that Col. Everett isn't here, nor anyone else, and when he turns back, there's not a Stargate for him to have come out of.
He might not be as hands-down brilliant as some people in the SGC, but Cwirko knows that doesn't happen. If the wormhole dies in the gate, or if the other gate is lost, or if anything, you don't just pop out somewhere random - you die. The Gate is what puts you back together from all your little atomic parts. No Gate means no you, and yet, here he is. In an alley, in the dark.
He turns, scoping the area before his hand goes to his radio and he checks; "This is Lt. Col. Cwirko. Anyone read me?"
No answer. Of course he wouldn't be that lucky.
He edges down the alley, pausing to toe at a newspaper on the ground. It looks like it's been there for a couple of days, grimy and torn, but he kneels down and searches for a date and reads Chicago Sun-Times, August 22, 2010.
He looks up, taking in the alley with renewed apprehension. "You have got to be shitting me."
He stands, edging down the alley again. He gets to the mouth and looks around - yeah, looks like Chicago, for all that he's never been there; kinda run-down and ratty part of town, but it has the same crappy Midwest restaurants and gas station chains and the cars parked one place or another have Illinois plates, and he can barely see the stars, there's so much light pollution. He hears someone walking down the street and looks toward the footsteps as they draw near. Tally: one young guy, wearing a polo shirt and jeans, tips of his hair bleached blond, staring at him with his mouth hanging open.
"Oh, man, shit! That all for paintball or somethin'?"
Cwirko raises his eyebrows. Here he is, off to save his friends and comrades halfway across the damn universe on the biggest, most secret mission the Earth has ever known, except he's in Chicago in the future for no good reason and some pimply college kid is giving him lip about his gear.
"I'm a Lieutenant Colonel in the United States Air Force, and you will know I'm paintballing because there'll be seven shades of blue on your pretty face," he snaps. He doesn't have time for this, and he's already getting the feeling that there's no love lost between him and this kid. "You mind telling me what the hell is going on?"
"Yeeah," the kid says, eying him. "You're a wanderer." He steps closer, pointing at something over Cwirko's shoulder. "You fell through the Rift..."
And Cwirko makes the mistake of looking.
The next thing he knows there's a flap and the kid's hands are tight around his neck and he's fighting back, breaking the grip, throwing the guy back on instinct. He turns, getting his rifle up-
-and the motherfucker has wings.
He comes at Cwirko again, too damn fast for any human to move, and Cwirko has one round off from his P-90 (he keeps it on single-shot; still can't bring himself to waste ammo) and the kid yowls and falls down before Cwirko has a chance to think about reacting. All automatic. Shit! He hadn't meant to do that - didn't need to go around shooting civs, even if they were alien fucking morons jumping Air Force colonels, and he kneels down to check the injury.
The blood coming out of the bullethole is white, milky-shiny, and what the fuck is that supposed to mean? That one guy, with his robotic duplicates; hadn't they had-? Or wasn't there that one species on P4R-234-? Or-?
He searches the kid's pockets for a mobile phone to call 911. No such luck. With an abbreviated curse, he pulls out a field dressing and starts in on the wound. "All right, hang on, you bastard." All he wants are some answers, but he'd better make sure he didn't kill this idiot, first.
So now he's on his knees, trying to stop some winged twentysomething from bleeding out on the pavement, staunching the flow of white blood, and wishing anyone would come and tell him what's going on. In a way that didn't involve trying to strangle him.
Any takers, Chicago?