Author: crash

Email: the.yllek@gmail.com

Status: Complete 6-9-07

Category: Angst, H/C

Pairings: none.

Spoilers: Anything up up through Tangent in S4. Some references to things in later episodes but non-spoilery so.

Season: 4 right after Tangent

Sequel/Series Info: none

Rating: Mature

Content Warnings: Language!

Archive: Incoming Wormhole

Summary: When you carry the weight of the world on your shoulders, and things start to get to heavy, what do you do? You shrug.

Disclaimer: Stargate Sg-1 and its characters are the property of Stargate (II) Productions, Showtime/Viacom, MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, and Gekko Productions. This story is for entertainment purposes only and no money exchanged hands. No copyright infringement is intended. The original characters, situations, and story are the property of the author. This story may not be posted elsewhere without the consent of the author.

Author's Note: Thanks to Aniko, Kat, Teoh(Steph), Dee, Toni, Arrietty, T, and Sallye, and anyone else who had a hand in this fic. It's finally done, and hopefully it's good. Thanks to Arrietty for the beta, and any lasting mistakes are mine, all mine! And you can't have them :-p

Chris is recurring original character that has appeared in several other stories including Whisper on a Scream, Caesura, and Broken Hallelujah.

Sydnea has appeared in a couple of other fics that I've written.

Atlas Shrugged

by crash

Atlas Shrugged Part 1/10 Ñ See part 0/10 for disclaimer and warnings

~*~

Cold. A weird cold if he was allowed to describe it like that. He knew what cold was, he was from the north where snow and ice in the winter was nothing to get excited about. He'd been cold before but this was new territory. It wasn't the kind that was remedied by a bed and quilted blankets, or the kind that came with cold showers. This was like nothing else; it was bad.

He'd done the freezing to death thing before. A couple of years ago after the gate overloaded and sent him and Carter jetting out of the second gate in Antarctica. That wasn't even as bad as this. At least that time he had the internal bleeding, head injury, fractured leg, and Carter's survival to keep his mind off the slow hypothermic death.

Now he had nothing to think about except the flesh eating cold that was consuming him and how he would die in the cold of space and the joy that would be on Apophis's face when he and Teal'c, showed up in their hermetically sealed butchered death glider. Images of corpses that had been mummified in sealed containers flittered into his mind and he shook his head, sending the images spinning away. One too many late night crime solving shows for him.

It also made his head hurt, his brain feeling like it was a pinball in his skull. He hoped that Hammond was going to send aspirin. Or, better yet, Fioricet. Nice little blue pill that would take everything away and leave him blissful ignorance for four hours or so.

They had done training in flight school, altitude chambers and masks. He was young then, the day ended and they all went out drinking as a medicinal aid to the headaches they got form the simulated high altitude and slap fest that was supposed to be a simple game of 'patty cake.'

Jack laughed at the memory. Or maybe it was a giggle. It was hard to tell when you weren't in full control of your faculties. If it was a giggle, he was glad no one was around to hear to it. Those had been good days. They were before. Before he was accepted into special operations. Before he had become the man who knew as many ways to kill silently as he knew how to cook an egg. Before he discovered that he could conjure up the devil inside on demand and conceal it just as easy. Before he did damned distasteful things that ultimately made him lose faith.

The problem with dying slowly, was that you had a lot of time to think. Time to look back and re-evaluate those tumultuous decisions in life and ask the dangerous question 'what if?' Two simple words and a question mark that could shatter your entire life's balance and left you standing bereft, in a pile of ill-fitting puzzle pieces.

What if he had let Alar come through from Euronda instead of closing the iris? What if he didn't order the reactor to be modified to explode? What if he had given Daniel the chance to find another way to solve the problem with the Enkarans? He could go on endlessly, recalling each instance in his career that he had made a call that he didn't feel qualified to make but had to. His superiors would issue empty platitudes claiming that he made the right choice while his team was rethinking the trust and faith they had instilled in him.

Despite his thick as brick routine, he wasn't stupid and he wasn't the uncaring ghoul that he sometimes came off as. Jack was fully aware of the underlying tension coursing through his team. The small looks of disbelief and distrust that were shot his way that gave him a tiny niggling feeling in his gut that he had lost their respect, trust, and faith. It kept him up at night, replaying the missions in a Gamekeeper like fashion that only confirmed that his choice was the one to be made but left him with no sense of comfort or peace.

He knew what was going to happen and how, even if the people back at the SGC didn't want to admit it. Jack had done the math, even with Teal'c using less oxygen they still wouldn't last another twenty-four hours. They were going to die, just like Apophis had decreed, in the cold of space where a dish like revenge was best served. Or, by some miracle they did survive to be rescued, which Jack was failing to figure out as scout ships weren't that big and the death glider wouldn't fit into the cargo bay, it wouldn't be without brain damage.

Either way, Jack was left with plenty of time to reflect. Teal'c was attempting to prolong their oxygen supply by keel no reeming. The time lag with Earth, and the lack of power for the radio ruled that out as a way to keep his mind from investigating the wrong path of memories. He had tried to sleep, but his head hurt too much. So he was left contemplating while drifting a million miles an hour toward the Ort Cloud.

~*~

Jack couldn't sleep. Actually, it was more like he didn't sleep. It wasn't for lack of trying either. Twenty-one hundred would roll around and he'd start to drift off during Sports Center and by the time the nine-thirty commercial breaks would start, he'd give up trying to stay awake and lever himself out of his recliner. He'd lock up the house, brush his teeth, pee, set his alarm, and after peeling socks off his feet, collapse exhausted on to his bed and become one with it. Under a sheet and two blankets he'd sleep perfectly for an hour, maybe two.

He couldn't figure out what woke him up. It wasn't a nightmare, or a strange dream. Or if it was he didn't remember. The last one he remembered was several weeks go and he was sure was alcohol induced. He couldn't find any other explanation for having a dream involving Siler in a dress, doing gate repairs, and General Hammond wearing a wig that reminded him of Hathor.

It didn't matter what woke him. He was always wide-awake, restless, and something. He wasn't sure how to describe it but it all came together driving him from his bed and leaving him where he was now. Stretched out on the crappy futon that was in his basement den watching the Late Late Show, and hurling unheard insults about the redneck psychologist guest Dr. Phil, and wishing Chris was there to join in.

He shifted slightly trying to get his butt into the hole left by missing support rails; rails that were knocked out not long after he bought the futon all those years ago. Before he even knew Sarah; when he, Kawalsky, and Frank, shared an infinitely gross shit-hole of a bachelor apartment not far off base. Sarah had begged and pleaded with him to leave it there when he moved out. She said that it reeked of sweat, cigarettes, and Guinness and that she would not have it in her house.

She won in the end, it stayed there until Frank moved out when he got married and Kawalsky declared that six hundred and fifty dollars a month was too much to pay for a shit hole. By then the futon had seen so much abuse in the form of drunken, and sober, wrestling matches, fighting, and rough housing, it was held together with zip ties where bolts had been sheered, and duct tape covering up sharp spots, and generous amounts of JB Weld to keep support rails in. It was basically a piece of crap that was still in existence only because it was miraculously comfortable. And, most importantly, because it bothered Daniel.

Some Jewish rapper was performing on TV, and Jack swept a hand across the floor looking for the remote. Finding it, not on the floor but laying next to his thigh, he flipped channels, skipping past the alphabet soup of news stations and infomercial tycoon Billy Mays, to settle on some show where a girl was just snuffed out by a falling toilet seat.

~*~

Janet winced, and not for the first time either. She was still trying to figure out what had possessed her to come and watch. Definitely not the smartest decision she had ever made. She patched these people up on a weekly basis, the last thing she needed to see was them voluntarily throwing themselves in harms way. The SGC couldn't have intramural basketball or Ultimate Frisbee, as its main attraction. It had to have street hockey.

Street hockey that was being played in a make shift rink, in an asphalt parking lot in eighty-six degree heat with a lovely humidity level of seventy-five. She should have stayed home in her nice, air conditioned house today instead of watching the men and women of the SGC barreling into each other holding sticks and wearing inline skates. The coed teams were fiercely competitive and she cringed thinking of how rough the matches would get if they had a proper rink with full walls.

She winced again, visibly shying away from the melee in front of her. Griff of SG-2 collided with Jenkins and Howell of SG-4 landing in a mess of limbs and multilingual cursing. They helped each other up and got in position for the face-off to start play again. The Colonel dropped the ball and jumped back as the players fought for control and play resumed. He and Ferretti were refereeing this year, both claiming that they were too old to keep up with the youngins.

There were eight minutes left on the play clock and it was still scoreless. Janet didn't think it was possible for them to move any faster, but they did. She put a hand over her eyes, pressing down tightly; trying to stop thinking about the spectacular accident her imagination was playing up for her. There was a smack of ABS plastics followed by a whistle being blown and Janet pressed her hand harder across her eyes.

Slowly, she spread her fingers apart, just enough to allow her a small, oblong view of the rink. The Colonel and Ferretti were discussing something, the two teams waiting eagerly for the call. Done talking, the Colonel turned to face the two teams, using his arms to signal the call that Janet had figured out earlier, was something to do with illegal checking. Howell was escorted to the penalty box and play resumed.

Five minutes left. Janet hoped someone scored. She didn't think she'd be able to make it through any overtime. Sure, she could leave at any time, but for some reason she was compelled to sit there, on top of a picnic table, hiding behind her hands as if she was a teenager watching a horror movie. It was like watching a car wreck; she couldn't not look.

~*~

Next year they were getting a better location. Indoor and climate controlled with a decent floor. The community center in town had a nice rink that would work, with spiffy Sport Court flooring and proper boards. Way better than warped asphalt and summer heat.

He moved out of the way, easily rolling backwards on his skates as Howell and Penhall went flying by. He missed playing. The action rush in the fast paced game; the feel of the cool air on his hot scalp under his helmet. But he knew that he couldn't play any more, his knee and back couldn't handle it. Not at this level of competitive play.

He watched as Griff passed the puck, err ball, to Coburn as they tried to set up for a goal only for Coburn to be illegally checked by Howell. He raised his left hand to his mouth, giving a sharp blow on the whistle that slid on his first and second fingers. He checked to make sure the score clock stopped and turned to talk with Ferretti who had rolled over. Done talking, he signaled the call, giving Howell a two-minute penalty, and reached down to grab the construction orange ball as Ferretti escorted Howell to the penalty box.

There were five minutes left in the period and he hoped that someone scored. He didn't care who, just someone, he didn't want to have to hang out here any longer than necessary. It was disgustingly hot and he was infinitely glad this was the last match they had planned for the day. Starting at zero seven hundred seemed like a bastard of an idea at first, but now he was glad that they did. He skated over to the spot for the face off, and waited for the players to finish getting drinks and join him.

A quick look around showed that the crowd had thinned considerably, onlookers deciding that watching the last half of the second period wasn't worth suffering the heat. He'd be gone too if he could, he was hot and sweaty and just wanted a cold shower, a bottle of purple Gatorade, and a nap. In any order. The players from both teams arrived for the face off and he took another look around to make sure everyone was ready.

Kenneth and Coburn were in position and he leaned over, pausing to scratch at the irritated skin on the back of his knee. Janet had insisted that he get fitted for a proper brace, and while most of the time it was fairly comfortable, the sweat and constant movement caused the straps to leave the skin red and raw and it burned as salty sweat rolled over it.

Jack opened his eyes. Blinking, trying to bring the cattywhumpus sight in front of him into focus. It was as if he was lying on the bottom of a pool watching the people swimming by above him. Only noisier, people were hollering for someone. Maybe at him, he wasn't sure, it was like watching that Sims game that Cassie was always playing. The characters gibbered, but formed no words, but sometimes thought bubbles would appear above their head. Squinting, he tried to see if the people in front of him had thought bubbles.

Nope, no thought bubbles. Jack wished they'd speak so he could understand them. He was hoping that they would tell him why his face hurt, and why it was so hot. Definitely not the swimming pool or the Sims. He closed his eyes, squeezing them tightly, mentally crossing his toes that when he opened them everything would be okay.

It worked, somewhat. He could make out the face in front of his. That was easy, he was very familiar with it. It was Janet, Doc, medical wonder extraordinaire! They'd done this particular dance many times before. But, he wasn't in the infirmary, nor had he been off world. He'd been officiating the SGC hockey tournament. Howell had just been given a penalty for illegal checking and they were getting ready to do the face off. It was a blank after that.

His calves were burning, and the image of his skin melting into a puddle on top of the tarmac jumped into his head and Jack desperately tried to move, to get up. To painfully peel himself off of the ground before he lost more than that thin layer of skin that was mostly dead anyways.

~*~

It was utterly sad. He could tell what time it was by which judge or court show was on TV. He was ashamed to admit that he watched them. All of the Judge Insert-Name-Here shows, Texas Justice when it used to come on, Divorce Court, and occasionally The People's Court. But he'd lost interest in The Peoples Court, it just wasn't the same without Judge Wapner. Plus, it came on at the same time as El Amor no Tiene Precio did on channel eleven. Mexican soap operas were much more entertaining than American ones. But there were two more hours, and a visit before it came on TV. Divorce Court meant that it was eleven hundred, and some member of his team would stop by for lunch at exactly eleven forty-five.

Thanks to the little passing out incident at the hockey tournament the other day, Janet had put him on medical leave for two weeks. He'd woke up in the infirmary, huge needle in the crook of his arm, his bottom lip was numb, his face throbbed, and there was one pissed off Janet Frasier standing next to him. She didn't even offer him a drink of water before informing him about proper hydration in the heat, and how people need to eat properly and sleep.

So here he was, enjoying day four of his fourteen day enforced vacation, sitting in the fatty-boom-ba-latty chair in his basement, watching bad daytime programming, playing catch with a Nerf ball and the opposing wall and, poking his lower lip with the tip of a twenty caliber round to see if it could feel it. He couldn't, he knew that, there were six stitches in his lip, right above the chin where the combination of hockey stick and teeth bit clean through. Doc had told him it might take a while for the feeling to come back but it didn't stop him from poking just above the stitches.

~*~

Jack shivered. He tried not to but his body wasn't listening to any of his commands. It fit right in with the whole missions-perpetually-going-down-the-sewage-pipe syndrome that afflicted SG-1. SG-1 had sat down and figured it out once, doing the math to come to the conclusion that three out of five missions didn't go as planned. Not that all of those missions ended up with them running hellfire back to the gate with angry natives flinging spears and javelins at them, or Jaffa mysteriously showing up and ruining things. No, sometimes it was as simple as forgetting to do complete checks of their equipment and find out that they didn't bring all of their equipment. Or finding out that the local cuisine didn't quite sit well with them.

This was definitely one of those three out of five missions. Incorrect meteorological data lead to the surprise of the temperature fifteen degrees cooler than expected, a frosty night and equally frosty morning. That would have just been a minor unplanned event had the natives not decided that their worthiness needed to be evaluated.

One of the natives poked him with their cane leaving a smear of cold, wet gooey mud on his flank. Jack shuddered; his whole body moving against his will starting from his neck and moving downward. He wasn't too keen on having his worthiness evaluated. He didn't like it on Earth, and he sure didn't like it here where the method involved being stripped of all clothing while the elders poked and prodded at him in front of everyone.

Not generalized poking either. Callused fingers touched him, ghosting across his skin as they traced the scars that were littered over his torso. Knife wounds, bullet holes, surgical scars, burn marks; each one of them was inspected by each of the elders. It felt like an insect was crawling on his back as they took their turns running their fingers along the long healed whip marks. They were faint now, only noticeable upon and up close visual inspection or by touch.

He shut his eyes, trying to block out what was happening, willing himself to disappear or to wake up and find that this was all just a drug induced vision of his addled brain.

~*~

TBC in Part 2