Disclaimer - MGM/Gekko/Double Secret own them.
Sam/Jack angst, rated PG-13. Set in season six, but the only spoiler is that Jonas is there.
I haven't been able to write lately. So I decided to stick my tongue out at the muse and write a story about not being able to write. So ner!
Use of ::: indicate typing, use of {} indicate memories. Feedback would be appreciated.
*
She couldn't type anything. The pads of her fingers rested against the keys but didn't press, the plastic smooth and vaguely concave against her skin. The fingers of each hand were on what she knew to be the 'proper' starting keys, though that wasn't due to any typing course that she'd been on - it was simply down to expediency.
It was always down to expediency.
She'd been using computers for so long and so frequently; it made sense that she'd fall into the fastest typing style for her.
Not that it was helping much right now.
Her gaze fell towards the keyboard, her index fingers sliding slowly back and forth over the keys they were resting on. The keys hadn't always been smooth - originally they'd had a kind of matt finish to them, but time and the natural grease that came from her skin had leant a shine and evenness to them. Certain characters on certain keys had begun to fade; wear away.
And as she frowned, staring at them, she was surprised - but really, she shouldn't have been - to realise that the most faded of all were the keys that spelt his name.
Maybe it was just coincidence. Maybe the words she typed most often happened to use most of the same letters as his name. Maybe it was sheer coincidence. She really didn't remember typing his name in her reports, or for any other reason *that* often.
Her gaze moved again, staring back at the blinking cursor on her monitor. She'd heard or read about authors who suffered through 'writer's block', who lost their inspiration - sometimes for days, sometimes forever - but she'd never actually experienced it before.
It'd been years since she'd last written something creative - well over a decade. But this wasn't even the same thing; she shouldn't *be* 'blocked'. For this, she shouldn't even need inspiration. She should just do what she always did: state the facts. Report what happened.
She always did that. Always.
What kind of creativity or inspiration did that require?
She was a scientist. She was used to - and even enjoyed - providing results without a biased viewpoint. Of just stating what *was*, not what could be assumed. She enjoyed the certainty of it, that here was a fact that couldn't be denied.
And here, within her head, she had a fact that couldn't be denied.
Her fingers started moving.
:::There was a Jaffa battalion hidden on P7C 386 that neither intel or the MALP telemetry suggested would be there.:::
{The first blast had been such a surprise and so close that she'd been forced to fall to the ground and roll away...}
:::Colonel O'Neill ordered an immediate retreat, and the rest of the team provided cover fire as Jonas dialled the Stargate home.:::
{Taking what little cover she could behind the gate...}
:::It became clear that we were grossly out-numbered, and that no matter how many shots we fired, it wouldn't be enough - Jonas was going to get hit, and soon.:::
{Watching with horror as he stood from where he'd been crouched behind the DHD, pushing Jonas out of the way, telling him to hide, and continuing to dial himself...}
:::Colonel O'Neill took his place. As he was avoiding numerous staff weapon blasts our retreat was delayed, but the Colonel eventually managed to press the remaining symbols on the DHD. As he pressed the red activation circle, he was struck by a staff blast.:::
{The smell of burning flesh, staring in disbelief as he first fell forwards onto the DHD, and then Jonas frantically tugging him onto the ground, trying awkwardly to hide the both of them...}
And that was all she remembered. She knew what happened next only because she'd been told by the others.
:::Teal'c advanced quickly, picking the Colonel up as Jonas and I provided what cover fire we could. Jonas had already input the IDC so we ran towards the Stargate. It is my firm belief:::
{Burning flesh, a crumpled body on the ground, fixed eyes seeing nothing...}
:::that Colonel O'Neill was already dead before we left P7C 386.:::
Her hands were shaking, her throat clogged with emotion. A finger hovered over the delete button, wanting to erase it, wanting to make it Not True.
But she was a scientist.
And she had a fact that couldn't be denied.
Her right hand moved, encasing the mouse, moving the pointer. Her right index finger lowered.
She clicked 'File'.
She clicked 'Save'.
And closed the program.
~FINIS