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Hammond plucked the envelope from the in-basket with a sense of puzzlement. It had come in the regular mail to the SGC, but it was addressed in Jack O'Neill's familiar spiky handwriting. Why would there be a note from Jack in the mail? They were going to see each other before the meeting with the State Department later this morning in any case.
Hammond's excellent memory presented him with several distinct possibilities and suggested others even more outre. Turning to the end of the page, he saw the signature and relaxed. A little. At least this was a Jack he knew about. On the heels of the relief came a fresh wave of curiosity. Why was O'Neill's clone writing to him? He turned back to the beginning.
Dear General Hammond,
I would have liked to tell you about this in person over a few beers. But frankly, I was afraid you would try to stop me-
Hammond's brow creased in concern, and he abruptly remembered all the times that Jack had worried the heck out him over the years.
And besides, I didn't want you to get arrested for buying alcohol for a minor-
Hammond chuckled, but the smile died as he read further.
High school sucks, by the way. I love kids, but teenagers? All the self-importance of a minor Goa'uld without half the dress sense.
Hammond felt vaguely guilty. Jack- the real Jack- had been profoundly against his clone remaining in the program. At the same time, everyone had had concerns about whether the colonel- even in a fifteen-year-old body- could be content worrying about nothing more pressing than history homework.
So, having resigned myself to sitting out the action for a few more years, imagine my surprise to see a familiar face on the evening news.
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Not for the first time he considered the injustice of having a brain wired to find forty-year-old women attractive when no one under the age of twenty would consider going out with him. And they were boring. Even channeling his shallowest male impulses, he couldn't bring himself to find the idea attractive. Not to mention that it made him feel like a pervert.
Not even the novelty of being able to run ten miles without his knees hurting was enough to reconcile him to the...the uselessness of it all. He reached out for the remote and flipped rapidly through the available offerings. CNN was showing scenes of servicemen in the Middle East and he switched hurriedly away. The Air Force in its mercy had indicated that he'd be welcome to apply to the Air Force Academy when he'd finished high school. Hell, he'd taught at the Air Force Academy. Why couldn't they give him back SG-1, that's what he'd like to know? The other O'Neill had been promoted, moved on. Wasn't even at the SGC anymore to be weirded out by his teenage self. Not that Carter couldn't handle it, of course.
He paused on the local news. A traffic accident on the road out to the base. Local politicians. Sports. Rockies had lost. Figures. And then--
What???!! Jon watched with his mouth open as Ba'al, what the hell is that sonofabitch doing on Earth talked smoothly about business opportunities in a vaguely foreign accent. Still no dress sense, Jon noted absently. That suit looked like it belonged on a fifties mobster. He barely registered what the Goa'uld was saying through the whirl of his thoughts.
Jon switched off the TV and went to the computer. He'd thought it would be years before he could be back in the game. He hadn't expected Ba'al to make it easy for him. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the computer screen just before it booted. His current age was better than any disguise. Ba'al wasn't going to expect him, either.
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Love the frame of Hammond getting the letter (and LOL at the AUs that probably leapt to mind for him) for clone!Jack going Black Ops!Jack? Deliciously, delightfully creepy!
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Of course he'd have seen Ba'al on the news--and of course Ba'al shouldn't recognize him. Shouldn't....
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