PG13

No Spoilers

Have you ever been in a situation where your life absolutely depended on your own actions? Where giving up would be easy, but to do so would be deadly?

"I will reach that goddamn button."

I helps to say this, somehow.

Or die trying. Which might be the case if I can’t get myself moving.

Damn, my carpet needs cleaning. I try to laugh, but the gurgling in my lungs tells me that maybe this isn’t a good idea.

Man, who would have thought of it? The big bad Colonel of SG1 taken out by one of his own men.

Let me clarify that. Not anybody from SG1, no, this was Airman Walker from SG6. Some psychotic little snot that we decided to try out, to see if he was mentally prepared to do gate travel.

OK, he didn’t look psychotic. Actually, he looked a bit like Daniel, sort of. With short black hair.

He screwed up. Again and again. When he eventually disobeyed a direct order from Captain Dell, SG6’s 2IC, they quite rightly sent him home. To me.

They sent him to me so that I could find out what was wrong with him.

What was wrong was that he was psychotic. Is psychotic. I try to laugh. It comes out all gargled.

He caught me totally by surprise. One minute he is at attention in front of me. The next, I’m looking at the carpet under my desk, my hands feeling a knife buried in my chest.

I really must work on my people skills.

OK, O’Neill, time to move. I have a choice, telephone or threshold button. The button is closer, a moot point really. Even if I could reach the telephone, which I can’t, I don’t think that I have the breath to speak.

The emergency button is closer, mounted on the wall. All I need to do is push it, hard.

Everyone will react to a threshold situation, an alien infiltration of the base, but I don’t mind. The priority of the SF’s is to check all the offices, including mine.

A threshold situation will save my life.

If Icanreachthatgoddamnbutton.

That’s right O’Neill. Use your elbows. That’s it. Don’t look at the knife.

Dammit Walker, I had such a good record, hadn’t been to the infirmary for over two months. 

Doctor Frasier actually said she was missing me.

Now this. Come on O’Neill. Crawl. Don’t think of the blood. Crawl.

Nearly there.

Oh God it hurts. Must have blacked out for a moment. Fallen forwards, onto the knife. I’m crying, my tears streaming down my face because it hurts so much. I don’t much care about the tears.

At least I am still alive to cry. So far.

That knife is buried in me up to the hilt now. Way to go O’Neill, finish the job.

It is hard to breathe, and I feel cold.

It must not end like this.

It will not end like this.

I will not let everything I have done in my life fade away because of one screwed up individual.

I will have my revenge.

Slowly I roll onto my side. My blood is a copper color against the gray carpet. Then, with great care and precision I write his name.

Walker.

I write his name on the carpet, using my own lifeblood as ink.

Airman Peter Walker. Just in case there is another airman Walker. Wouldn’t like to implicate the wrong man, would I?

I laugh, somehow this seems so funny. I visualize a fifties television show. Two detectives complete with fedoras and slicked back hair looking down at my dead body. ‘Well,’ one says to the other, ‘ at least he managed to name his killer before it was too late.’

‘Yeah,’ the other agrees. ‘ Poor bastard knew he was done for..’

I laugh even harder, my tears falling onto the wet carpet with dull plops, then cough, deeply and horribly.

It hurts, deep inside.

Oh God. It can’t end like this.

Come on O’Neill, just a little bit further.

Turn onto your stomach again, that’s it. Now, use those elbows. Tell your feet to help.

I am aware that I am trying to talk to myself, my lips are moving but my voice has long since dried up.

Then I feel the coolness of the wall.

Now the really hard part.

Shakily, my eyes tightly shut against the pain; I order my fingers to reach up, to find the button. My body helps, obeying my orders as well.

Kneel, use your other hand to brace yourself. That’s it O’Neill, going good.

I cannot breathe in this position, but it is either this or the morgue, and I hate cold. Have done ever since Antarctica.

There. My trembling hands feel the ridge, the roundness. Come on O’Neill. Press. Nothing happens.

God damn it. Press harder.

Suddenly I am assaulted with a cacophony of sound. No music played anywhere in the world could have sounded as sweet as the noise I hear above my head.

I lay there, on my side again, waiting.

Eventually I hear office doors being slammed open. They are coming.

Then it is my turn.

His hands are gentle. " Sir? "

I hear someone calling Doctor Frasier, his voice trembling as he calls out a medical emergency. The slamming of the doors continue, as it should in a threshold situation, but in here is an oasis of peace.

I want to shut my eyes and sleep, but I am so scared. The room seems to be fading into a uniform gray, the same color as the carpet. Desperately I focus on the SF kids faces.

I will not die.

I concentrate rather on my breathing, aware that my gurgling breath echoes round in this quiet office, upsetting them.

When did they get so young?

Then the door crashes open and the room is filled with people, way too many people. Gentle hands push me onto my back and I look into the beautiful eyes of an angel called Dr Janet Frasier.

She is yelling things at the others, and at me, but I tune her out for a moment, my eyes widen. One of the SF’s looks so familiar.

" Charlie..?"

I try to raise a blood-smeared hand to him, but as suddenly as he appeared, he is gone.

Bereft, I allow the voices from the assembled people come crashing back in.

" Colonel. COLONEL. Stay with me." Dr Frasier is slapping my face, as people are lifting me onto a gurney.

" Charlie..? " I try to tell her that he is somewhere here, but she just looks spooked.

Then she is pushed aside by a large SF Major. He leans close. " Sir, did Airman Walker stab you? "

Good they found my graffiti. Nodding is an effort, but I manage it. You psychotic snot. Revenge is sweet.

Then I am wheeled out into the hall. Carter is there, as is Daniel and Teal’c. They all look appalled at my appearance. I guess seeing their Colonel flat on his back with a knife stuck in his chest is not a pretty sight. I can see this knife really clearly in the harsh lights of the hallway, and I don’t like it either. My hands wander to it, but Janet slaps me away. " Leave it."

It is hard to stare objectively at a knife stuck in my chest, but I try. I stare at it hard, noticing its light brown hilt, the soft grip. My head is raised and I breathe in pure oxygen as a mask is slipped over my face, but I can’t take my eyes off of that knife. It is a boot knife, one issued to all SG personnel when they go offworld, and returned to the armory when they return. Someone slipped up.

Airman Walker returned his. To me, the hard way.

A hand breaks my concentration, lightly shaking my shoulder and I look up to see General Hammond. He looks concerned, they all look concerned. It must be all that blood. I am soaked in blood. Mutely I stare up at Dr Frasier. Can we get this show on the road before I bleed to death?

She smiles down at me and brushes back my hair, her lips moving, but I can’t hear her over the soft roaring in my ears. The light glints off of the hypodermic in her hand, but I don’t object. Not this time anyway.

I trust her with my life.

Am once more trusting her with my life.

If she says that it is OK, then it is safe to sleep.

.......................

Never in all of my years have I seen someone who has been so grievously hurt still cling stubbornly to consciousness.

I am shocked beyond words by his appearance, yet at the same time I am strangely comforted by his expression.

His eyes glitter with white-hot anger. They seem to bore into the far distance, as if he is personally forcing himself to survive.

I have never seen anything like it before in my entire career.

He is so gray he is almost translucent, forcing Dr Frasier to start blood transfusions immediately, here in the hallway outside his office.

As I watch, she injects something into a vein, telling him to relax.

Telling him that she will take over his care from here. For a moment I don’t think that he understands, such is his tight grip on his own life, then slowly I see the fire fade, the coals being raked back. Not finished by far, but content for now to accept another’s help.

They move him when he eventually loses consciousness.

Stepping back to allow her and her medics more freedom, I stare aghast into my second’s office.

There is a large pool of his blood collected on the floor in front of his desk, then streaks and handprints as he desperately pulled his body towards the alarm. Dear God, this mans hold on life is phenomenal.

The MP’s have taped off O’Neill’s office with tape that says ‘crime scene, do not pass.’

Crime Scene

This makes my blood turn cold, then boil. How dare this man try to take out probably the most valuable member of any SG team on this base. How dare he.

The MP’s are taking copious photos of everything, especially the bloodied writing on the floor to use against Walker in his court martial.

And we will have no sympathy. None whatsoever.

We will remove that man from this base; we will remove that man from active service.

And in time, hopefully Colonel O’Neill’s memories of this night will fade.

Although I doubt it.

*Einde.*

BETA Tested by CiGiK

.....and THIS is what fans e-mailed to Biltong.....

(I) love your WaM story.  I hope that you plan to add more or write more stories.

Your descriptions are very well done and I was able to picture myself there 

at the scene.  Good job!

Dee 

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Wow. I just read your Stargate fic "My Light Will Not Fade". It's kinda scary, really. And *very* Jack. I thought it was a brilliant and accurate portrayal of Jack; he's definitely a fighter. I was wondering, though, if Walker had any particular reason, real or imagined, for stabbing Jack. Not that it really matters, of course.

Thank you for a great read,
    Bil!
>A psychotic person not necessarily LOOK psychotic - but will react blindly
>to any perceived threat.
>The fact that O'Neill was about to dismiss him from a SG team was a very
>real threat - and he responded atypically...
>
>Hope that clears that up for you!

Yeah, that makes a lot of sense. Thanks!
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Hi  -  This story was marvelous.  I was surprised that a short piece
like this could be so gripping.  Very intense writing; I think I was
holding my breath as I read!  I was a little concerned that you would
end it abruptly once O'Neill managed to reach the button (or not?) and
was glad to see you follow through with his "rescue."  I also enjoyed
that you ended it with Hammond's perspective.  Watching O'Neill fight
for his life was powerful; observing as Hammond took in what had
happened made the story even better.

Thanks for writing this and putting it out there for others to read.

Bethj

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Biltong,
I loved your Word a month, great hurt, great comfort, great jack. 

Fade was a great word (mine's written but not yet posted).   

Hope you are writing more.

Mary the Badger
Visit my website: O'Neill's House
Home of Badger's SG-1 stories, featuring Jack O'Neill
http://www.geocities.com/sg1_oneills_house/
Undomesticated equines could not remove me
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