Screening, by Circadienne; Earthside Challenge
Title: Screening
Author: Circadienne
Rating: Rather dark PG.
Characters: Mostly John Sheppard.
Length: ~1000 words.
Summary: He was reaching for his gun and it wasn’t there.
Screening
In your life, have you ever had any experience that was so frightening, horrible, or upsetting that, in the past month, you…
1. Have had nightmares about it or thought about it when you did not want to?
Bugs. Big black bugs. Big black bloodsucking - they were in the bed, they were on his legs, they were crawling up toward - get away, get away, get - he shot upright, gasping, reached over, fumbled, twisted the switch on the hotel room lamp, woke up as electric light filled the room. White sheets, a fuzzy beige blanket. A knotty pine entertainment cabinet, its doors hanging open to reveal a TV and a coffeemaker and a binder with room service menus. A hotel. On Earth. No giant black bloodsucking braineating hideous monster bugs from hell. Not even under the bed. Nope. None. Not a one. Not anywhere.
He inhaled, exhaled, counted to ten. Twice. Then he shoved the covers off, stood up, ran his hands through his hair. It was four in the morning. It was summer. It would be light out soon enough. It was not, he decided, too early to go for a run.
2. Tried hard not to think about it or went out of your way to avoid situations that reminded you of it?
“I think what the general is trying to say, Colonel, is that we were hoping for some more detail than what we’ve gotten in these reports.” O’Neill was trying to be patient, but it was obvious that he was getting tired of John’s evasiveness.
John deliberately looked blank. “Detail, sir?”
“Detail,” the general rumbled from the head of the table. “For instance, you know we have ongoing concerns about civilian management of the Atlantis expedition. Particularly given the variety of combat operations you’ve been engaged in.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Does it seem normal to you?”
“No, sir.” He paused. “It’s certainly not what I trained for, sir. What with the aliens and the nukes and everything.”
The general twitched. “No, not the combat, Sheppard. Taking orders from civilians.”
John leaned back in his chair. “Sir, with all due respect, we all take orders from civilians. Ultimately.”
There was a stifled snort from down the table that he couldn’t quite place. It might have been Caldwell. It might also have been O’Neill. He didn’t look.
“Right.” The general took a swallow from his coffee cup. “Well. We’d like to review your command’s engagements, starting from the date of our last meeting and moving forward.”
John took a deep breath. “Sir.”
3. Were constantly on guard, watchful, or easily startled?
He was reaching for his gun and it wasn’t there.
They were coming out of the dimly-lit restaurant, walking down a little flight of steps into a bright July afternoon, and he saw it there ahead of them, the tall figure with the long pale hair and the dark skirts. He reacted, left hand shoving O’Neill back into the restaurant while his right went for the gun in the holster that…wasn’t…there.
And then the woman in front of him turned and he realized she was human. Not Wraith. Not eating the man sitting on the wall of the little planter. Just resting her hand on his shoulder, talking. Just a blonde woman in a long dress. Just a woman. In a long dress.
“Sheppard? You all right?”
He shook his head. “Sorry, sir. Thought I - saw something. Just jumpy, I guess.”
Jack gave him a long look, glanced toward the woman, shook his head. “It’s all right. Happens to all of us sometimes. Listen,” and he looked at his watch, “that meeting ran long. It’s almost four. Why don’t you head back to the hotel and get some rest and we’ll finish our conversation tomorrow morning before the briefing. Sound good?”
I’m an idiot, John thought, and instead of saying so he answered, “Thanks, sir. I’ll do that. Get some rest. It’s, ah, that time difference. Hard to adjust.”
“Right.” O’Neill pulled out his car keys. “I’ll drop you off.”
4. Felt numb or detached from others, activities, or your surroundings?
The hotel bar was as bland as the rest of the place, beige tables, beige chairs, watery beige beer, beige waitstaff in khaki pants and white polo shirts, and John hated it. He sucked on his beer and looked around him and none of it seemed quite real.
Real was a half-dead, half-living city floating on the ocean, impossibly old, impossibly beautiful, impossibly mysterious. Real was buckling on his vest, checking his weapons, and walking through a hole in space. Real was - and his mind veered away from some other things that were real, some other things that didn’t fit in an airport hotel in Colorado Springs.
Real was sitting in a cloaked jumper, watching a culling through the viewscreen like a pervert with a snuff film.
Real was all the ways he’d heard people die with their headsets on, right in his ear.
Real was the letters he’d write to wives, parents, grandparents, explaining that someone wasn’t coming home, and he couldn’t say why. And how would it be better, if he could tell the truth? “Dear Mr. and Mrs. Jones: I regret to inform you that on 19 June 2006, your son, Lance Corporal DeShaun P. Jones, Jr., was captured by enemy forces, tortured to death, and eaten by an alien life form. Corporal Jones was a respected member of his squad….”
Real wasn’t sitting in conference rooms, under fluorescent lights, answering stupid second-guessing questions about what exactly he’d been thinking. Real involved very little thinking and a hell of a lot of reacting, and that was what he’d been doing and that was exactly what he was not interested in explaining. Either they already understood or they never would.
He had no patience left.
The waitress came over and asked if he wanted another and he didn’t even look up, just muttered something negative and waited for her to leave.
These questions are the VA/DoD’s primary care screening for Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.
Author: Circadienne
Rating: Rather dark PG.
Characters: Mostly John Sheppard.
Length: ~1000 words.
Summary: He was reaching for his gun and it wasn’t there.
Screening
In your life, have you ever had any experience that was so frightening, horrible, or upsetting that, in the past month, you…
1. Have had nightmares about it or thought about it when you did not want to?
Bugs. Big black bugs. Big black bloodsucking - they were in the bed, they were on his legs, they were crawling up toward - get away, get away, get - he shot upright, gasping, reached over, fumbled, twisted the switch on the hotel room lamp, woke up as electric light filled the room. White sheets, a fuzzy beige blanket. A knotty pine entertainment cabinet, its doors hanging open to reveal a TV and a coffeemaker and a binder with room service menus. A hotel. On Earth. No giant black bloodsucking braineating hideous monster bugs from hell. Not even under the bed. Nope. None. Not a one. Not anywhere.
He inhaled, exhaled, counted to ten. Twice. Then he shoved the covers off, stood up, ran his hands through his hair. It was four in the morning. It was summer. It would be light out soon enough. It was not, he decided, too early to go for a run.
2. Tried hard not to think about it or went out of your way to avoid situations that reminded you of it?
“I think what the general is trying to say, Colonel, is that we were hoping for some more detail than what we’ve gotten in these reports.” O’Neill was trying to be patient, but it was obvious that he was getting tired of John’s evasiveness.
John deliberately looked blank. “Detail, sir?”
“Detail,” the general rumbled from the head of the table. “For instance, you know we have ongoing concerns about civilian management of the Atlantis expedition. Particularly given the variety of combat operations you’ve been engaged in.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Does it seem normal to you?”
“No, sir.” He paused. “It’s certainly not what I trained for, sir. What with the aliens and the nukes and everything.”
The general twitched. “No, not the combat, Sheppard. Taking orders from civilians.”
John leaned back in his chair. “Sir, with all due respect, we all take orders from civilians. Ultimately.”
There was a stifled snort from down the table that he couldn’t quite place. It might have been Caldwell. It might also have been O’Neill. He didn’t look.
“Right.” The general took a swallow from his coffee cup. “Well. We’d like to review your command’s engagements, starting from the date of our last meeting and moving forward.”
John took a deep breath. “Sir.”
3. Were constantly on guard, watchful, or easily startled?
He was reaching for his gun and it wasn’t there.
They were coming out of the dimly-lit restaurant, walking down a little flight of steps into a bright July afternoon, and he saw it there ahead of them, the tall figure with the long pale hair and the dark skirts. He reacted, left hand shoving O’Neill back into the restaurant while his right went for the gun in the holster that…wasn’t…there.
And then the woman in front of him turned and he realized she was human. Not Wraith. Not eating the man sitting on the wall of the little planter. Just resting her hand on his shoulder, talking. Just a blonde woman in a long dress. Just a woman. In a long dress.
“Sheppard? You all right?”
He shook his head. “Sorry, sir. Thought I - saw something. Just jumpy, I guess.”
Jack gave him a long look, glanced toward the woman, shook his head. “It’s all right. Happens to all of us sometimes. Listen,” and he looked at his watch, “that meeting ran long. It’s almost four. Why don’t you head back to the hotel and get some rest and we’ll finish our conversation tomorrow morning before the briefing. Sound good?”
I’m an idiot, John thought, and instead of saying so he answered, “Thanks, sir. I’ll do that. Get some rest. It’s, ah, that time difference. Hard to adjust.”
“Right.” O’Neill pulled out his car keys. “I’ll drop you off.”
4. Felt numb or detached from others, activities, or your surroundings?
The hotel bar was as bland as the rest of the place, beige tables, beige chairs, watery beige beer, beige waitstaff in khaki pants and white polo shirts, and John hated it. He sucked on his beer and looked around him and none of it seemed quite real.
Real was a half-dead, half-living city floating on the ocean, impossibly old, impossibly beautiful, impossibly mysterious. Real was buckling on his vest, checking his weapons, and walking through a hole in space. Real was - and his mind veered away from some other things that were real, some other things that didn’t fit in an airport hotel in Colorado Springs.
Real was sitting in a cloaked jumper, watching a culling through the viewscreen like a pervert with a snuff film.
Real was all the ways he’d heard people die with their headsets on, right in his ear.
Real was the letters he’d write to wives, parents, grandparents, explaining that someone wasn’t coming home, and he couldn’t say why. And how would it be better, if he could tell the truth? “Dear Mr. and Mrs. Jones: I regret to inform you that on 19 June 2006, your son, Lance Corporal DeShaun P. Jones, Jr., was captured by enemy forces, tortured to death, and eaten by an alien life form. Corporal Jones was a respected member of his squad….”
Real wasn’t sitting in conference rooms, under fluorescent lights, answering stupid second-guessing questions about what exactly he’d been thinking. Real involved very little thinking and a hell of a lot of reacting, and that was what he’d been doing and that was exactly what he was not interested in explaining. Either they already understood or they never would.
He had no patience left.
The waitress came over and asked if he wanted another and he didn’t even look up, just muttered something negative and waited for her to leave.
These questions are the VA/DoD’s primary care screening for Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.