I've got a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore.

[nomanleftbehind]

He’s standing there before the ‘gate, waiting for the other shoe to drop (because you can never trust a bad guy, much less damn snake), and right on cue, the ground starts to tremble. That’s the first sign. It’s not so obvious at first, and Jack thinks he might just be imagining it, but as he turns around, dust starts falling from the ceiling and

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[whatheytoldya]

Francis may be a little bit drunk right now.

Why is it that Wanderers seem to show up around him? It really is bullshit. He doesn't even like the fuckers. But no, he'll be a good Francis and let the bastards -- whatever.

"You just fell through a rift," he says, leaning against a telephone pole. "You just fell through a rift into Chicago, Illinois, where people want to kill you for existing, and everyone you know and love is gone. Oh, and there's no way back."

What Francis lacks in tact, he makes up for in honesty!

[nomanleftbehind]

Jack spins around at the sound of a man’s voice, his P-90 automatically rising to train itself on the source, and sees some guy who looks like he might be drunk leaning against a telephone pole. Relatively clean-shaven, well-built, Caucasian. Mid-30s to early-40s, if he has to guess, with a bit of a rugged air hanging about him.

After a quick glance around, Jack approaches him warily. “That’s impossible,” he says. He isn’t elaborating, but yes, he’s pouring on the skepticism as thick as he can, even though he knows from his surroundings that it’s entirely possible this is Chicago. He hasn’t been to the city in ages, but he’s retained enough memory of the place to be able to jigsaw the pieces together. “This is either a dream, or I’m hallucinating.” And any second now, he’s going to wake up with Daniel standing by his bedside doing a little glowing thing, and it’ll all be fine.

... any second now.

Okay, maybe not. Maybe he is going nuts. Which is not fine at all.

[whatheytoldya]

"If that's what you want to believe, that you're hallucinating, it's fine by me," Francis says. "Just don't get blood on my shirt when they blow you up."

He stares at the gun, tilting his head to the side slightly. "Also, if you want to shoot me, that's also fine. It's not like I haven't gotten replacements of almost every limb so far."

Francis wasn't the most cautious man in the war. If he wasn't so damn useful, the probably would have stopped replacing his limbs, too. Being useful has its merits.

"But it's up to you."

[nomanleftbehind]

They? “All right,” Jack says. He’ll play along for now. “What’s your name, and who’s they?”

He’s still not letting his guard down, though, because he’s not sure what to believe right now. Everything feels real, down to the godawful Chicago weather he remembers - what is it, summer right now? - but he’s been the victim of enough weird virtual reality machines and illusions to know that just because something feels real doesn’t mean it is.

The next part of the man’s speech registers. “Are you telling me you’re not human?” he says. His mind is already doing calculations. Don't rule anything out at the moment.

[sophicsulphur]

"You're okay." Iris wants to comfort him, before anything else. She's not really sure how true it is that anything about Chicago, this city that eats people and thrives on their chaos, is actually okay, but unlike a certain someone, that isn't going to be the first thing she tells people.

This is only the second person who's fallen through a Rift right in front of her, albeit in as many days - she wonders for a brief moment if the crystal she turns in her hands is drawing them somehow, even though it's not even charged yet, or if there are just that many - but she's quickly getting more confident with the drill.

Knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend.

"Here to help. Just... give yourself a moment."

[nomanleftbehind]

And about two seconds after he looked up to find himself in an unfamiliar city, a young teenager suddenly materializes at his side to comfort him. You’re okay, she’s saying, even though he doesn’t know why she’s saying it yet, even though he doesn’t really want any comforting at the moment. (He doesn’t think he needs it either, but that might change in a minute or two.) What he wants right now are some damn answers.

“Look,” he says. “Thanks for the” - he makes a vague gesture with his hands - “but could you answer a question for me? This might sound a little crazy, but where is this?”

[sophicsulphur]

Okay, she thinks, steeling herself. She never wants to break it to them hard, but it's clear that she won't get anywhere with this one unless she just says it straight out.

"This is a city named Chicago. And you don't sound crazy - there are a lot of people here like you. You've fallen through-- through a sort of hole in time and space, between universes."

That probably came out a little blurred together, because she's nervous and saying it fast, but she hopes he got the point.

[nomanleftbehind]

There’s a pause as he processes her words, and after a very distinct and awkward silence, he says: “Fallen through a what?” And into Chicago? Sure, the girl’s no Carter - thank God for small mercies, because he really doesn’t need to be walloped in the face by technobabble and sciency talk about … holes and stuff - but his head’s still spinning from the implication of her words.

He turns around, glances right over her head to take in his surroundings. It’s been several years since he’s visited Chicago - in fact, he hasn’t been here since he joined the SGC - but if he looks closely enough, he might be able to ID some landmarks. Make sure he's not in some kind of virtual world or something similar.

[allivegotleft]

McCoy's on his way to the library. He's been settled into a room and figured the first and best thing to do with himself would be to find out some more about this place. So he's walking back through the park, and a ways past where he'd just fallen out of the sky -

So does another man.

Of course McCoy would find himself another Wanderer when he's still not entirely sure what's going on here.

"Hey," McCoy calls from a distance. "You alright? I'm a doctor. And I can - well, I can try to explain what's going on here."

[nomanleftbehind]

Jack doesn’t really expect any response to his outburst - after all, he’s some guy standing in the middle of a patch of grass in the middle of a city shouting up at the sky like a madman - but then there’s someone hailing him from a distance, and he pivots sharply on his heel, instinctively raising his P-90 with a “Whoa, hey!” of surprise.

There’s a man approaching from a little ways off. 30s, probably, Jack estimates as the guy gets nearer. Tall (around his height), broad shoulders, looks Caucasian, though knowing what he knows, the guy can just as likely be alien. Jack doesn’t lower his gun.

“A doctor, huh?” he says. Oh, this is going to be good, he thinks. “Start talking. Where the hell am I?”

[allivegotleft]

"Easy!" McCoy exclaims, throwing one hand in the air as the other instinctively shoots to his hip. No phaser. He forgot. Damn.

He takes a step or two closer, though, both hands now held up in front of him.

"Look, I just landed here a few hours ago myself. I'm not exactly sure what's going on, but apparently there's this Rift - it's like a series of space-time wormholes that steal people from other universes and drop them here, in Chicago. It's August 8, 2010."

He shrugs. There's no way for McCoy to explain this efficiently - he can only hope this man understands that and backs down.

"I'm from the 23rd century, myself," he adds, as if that'll make it any better.

"And... apparently there's no way back."

[nomanleftbehind]

Jack notices the man going straight for something on his hip, and immediately his finger tightens on the trigger. Not enough so that the gun’ll go off, but enough so that it’s noticeable to anyone watching.

“Ah, hands up where I can see them!” he says. But it looks like his words aren’t needed. Either whatever the man was reaching for isn’t there (and Jack would bet a twenty that whatever was there had been a weapon) or he realizes the futility of his situation. Either way, both hands have shot up and they’re empty. For a second, Jack doesn’t relax his guard, because the man’s still walking forwards, dammit, but then the guy stops a few feet away. Just close enough to speak comfortably to, but not close enough to be threatening.

And he’s talking now. Something about Chicago (what?), 2010 (what?), and space-time wormholes (what?). Cautiously, Jack lowers the P-90 and, when the man mentions he’s from the 23rd century, Jack really can’t help himself any longer. He really can’t. “Are you nuts?”