Lt. Eric Van Sickle

"You are Lt.VanSickle."

The words startle me. Calming my thumping heart, I try not to let on to that fact.

Many people here have approached me, they've all been terrific, and most of them seem to know my story, so I don't have to explain myself. As for me, I try not to be friendly. Why make friends only to be kicked out into the street afterwards?

Not having to explain myself or put effort into relationships that can't exist gives me a certain relief. But, it's an unsettling relief, which somehow feels wrong.

Having not heard this person's approach in the murky hallway shakes my meager store of self-confidence. I've always thought that I was hard to sneak up on, this just shows me that a skill I had taken for granted only exists in my head. My heart settles into my stomach as I realize this is just more proof of how useless I really am. Glancing towards the voice, I nearly miss a step, Jaffa.

Correction, The Jaffa.

O'Neill's Jaffa.

The SGC's pet Jaffa.

'That one's just plain insulting.'

Teal'c.

'That's better.'

Why does putting a name to my lurker cause me to feel better? Is my fleeting fear more acceptable because a Jaffa is something a man can be fearful of? Is that why I ridiculed him silently in the freedom of my thoughts? Do I need to do that to feel self-worth? Shame suffuses me. Feeling like such a low life jerk, I huff out a disgusted sigh. Then again, why should I care? In less than 45 days, I'm out. Like someone putting a broken toy out in the trash.

"I apologize. I did not mean to startle you."

His words shatter my internal dialogue of degradation; he is telling me politely that my every thought had flown across my face. And, here in this dimly lit hall, he read it as if it was written in six-foot tall neon letters. Embarrassed would better describe my state, as I'm not just startled or surprised at being so readable to a Jaffa, I know they have many enhanced senses. Such augmented abilities are gifted them by their enforced carrying of a symbiote. From training, I recall good eyesight is just one of those virtues received in exchange for being a living incubator. An incubator that is discarded and easily replaced when that function can no longer be performed. Like that knowledge will ever be used; going off world is something denied me now. Cutting off my study of comparative worth, I attempt to divorce myself from my chaotic thoughts and give voice to a suitable reply.

"I'm fine and you're Teal'c."

"You are correct."

He is huge and stands a few feet from me with his hands clasped behind his back, standing at ease. Even I know his stance is deliberate; he's showing me that I need not fear him, his distance minimizing his bulk and height. Why does he attempt to make me feel comfortable, safe? I shove that question away, back into that jumble of feelings that I don't want to deal with and fall back on ingrained politeness.

"Is there something I can do for you?"

'Great line there Eric. Jeez, such imagination!'

The Jaffa no doubt receives more information as I feel my face heat up at my witty words, bringing to mind that I really need to work on my poker face. Yeah, Like I'd need it in my non-future.

"If you are agreeable, I wish to speak to you on the subject of this world's young warriors."

"Ah, sure, why not? I'm on my way to the commissary for lunch, would you like to speak there?"

Seemingly against my will, I hear the sarcastic edge to my words. Shouting out, 'It's not like I have anything important to do.'

"Indeed."

His answer puzzles me a little; he walks silently alongside me, surely he couldn't have missed my less than respectful tone. He doesn't speak a word until we are laden down with our food selections and seated. He opens the conversation with a single question.

"Are you quite recovered Lt.VanSickle?"

"Yes, I'm fine and you can call me Eric if you'd like." 'Might as well get used to it, I won't be a lieutenant much longer anyway.'

His inquiry surprises me, but he is Colonel O'Neill's Jaffa. Is he checking up on me for him? Does the man's guilt know no bounds? To my surprise, I can't keep my eyes off the Jaffa; he ever so gently smiles at my staring. The smile creates a fission of guilt that burns through me at my less than charitable thoughts.

"Using your personal name would be most uncomfortable. I am sorry. It is a cultural consideration, and no offense is meant."

The Jaffa regally inclines his head toward me. There is no other word to describe the move, regal. His explanation is more than I expected and something that I didn't know. Despite my determination to not submit to the Colonel's plans, I find myself interested.

"None taken. My studies never covered Jaffa social culture?"

"It is not covered in the SGC's training program."

His face is... well, not entirely welcoming, but his voice tells me something entirely different. My ears hear his offer of welcome, yet my eyes tell be to beware. His facial expressions are so subtle and somehow not quite human. Could I be misreading his face that badly? My interest ratchets up another notch and despite myself, I ask a question.

"I wonder why?"

'Yeah, why do I care? And why the hell isn't that covered in training.'

"O'Neill says that the culture of an enslaved race has no impact on how to fight the enslavers."

I swear that was said as if it had been a pronouncement from on high. On second thought, its omission is not all that strange, at least at the level that I and other incoming soldiers function within a SGC Team. The Jaffa aren't the enemy, they are victims of the Goa'uld. Unfortunately, we can't reason with them, as they have no control, but must fight our way through them to reach the real enemy. The Goa'uld is that enemy and they too cannot be reasoned with, but they choose not to, in fact it seems to be a genetic imperative with them. Knowing the social niceties of the Jaffa doesn't help us take down the Goa'uld, who in turn could care less what they do in what little freedom they possess as their designer slaves.

"Oh... Hey, you call Colonel O'Neill by just one name. It's not his first name, but you only use one. Why is that?"

'What am I doing?'

"It is a sign of respect to a brother."

"He's your brother?"

Now how in the hell can that be? Blood brothers? And why the hell do I care?

"Yes, my Warrior Brother. Do you not have someone you would willing die for?"

'Ah, he means brothers-in-arms.' Jeez, my mind is seeking out information despite my resolve not to.

The Jaffa... ah, Teal'c's face reveals a glimmer of affection at saying 'Warrior Brother.' Can a Jaffa participate in a friendship or feel fondness for another? Their culture may not covered in training, but much is known about what makes a Jaffa warrior tick. As I recall Jaffa are taught to divorce themselves from emotion, all part of carrying a symbiote. His affection for this man I'm currently trying to shun makes me envious.

"Well... I'm still... ah, was new at the warrior game. I'd guess that I'd die to protect my country, but for just one person? I don't know."

Such a strange thing to ask. Before he killed himself, I would've died to protect my father. Right now stepping in front of a bullet for anyone else would be way too easy and that thought has a certain fatal allure, I fear. Could I do that? End it, even for the benefit of another? Fully knowing that I was giving that person another chance at a future that I feel I can never have for myself? Do I have the strength to do that?

"You would die for your country. Do you not also believe that no day is a good day for dying? O'Neill constantly states this."

Yet again, I freeze for just a moment, exposing more information to the Jaf... Teal'c. He seems to take to heart everything that Colonel O'Neill says. As for dying, do I have the right to do that? Everything I've been taught, and did believe in, says to live and fight another day.

"Well, yes I do believe that too, but sometimes you have no choice."

What's with all of the questions about death and dying?

"O'Neill says that death is not a choice, only life is a choice."

"I think that he would find it hard to refuse death."

Right now lying back and letting go seems far easier than to struggle on.

"I have seen him do so many times, yet he still lives."

Pretending to eat the sandwich in my hand I covertly scrutinize Teal'c. Is he serious? Just how many times has Colonel O'Neill 'refused death?' And just how the hell do you do that? Where would anyone find the heart to struggle free of death more than once, let alone twice? Three times? More?

Can I do that and do I really want to? I have nothing to struggle for. No purpose, no future and no father.

"You think highly of him don't you?"

"He has much honor. Never has he misrepresented himself to me without just cause, he has nurtured my hope for my people and protected me with his life. I could do no less for him."

"You love him, brotherly love that is."

If only I could have something like that. Going on might be easier, maybe even worth the effort. Someone and something to strive for.

"Even though your concept of love is foreign to me, I do understand it. Yes, I love O'Neill."

"I envy you that love."

"You have no one to love?"

"Once, I did love someone, but I discovered that he didn't love me back."

"Who was this person?"

"My father."

Dr MacKenzie

Dr Fraiser just left because she had an emergency.

She gave me Lt. Van Sickle's chart and wants me to check the counselor's findings on the Lieutenant's mental recovery from his off world accident.

The counselor is a Dr Means, an independent consultant retained by the Air Force Academy Mental Health Clinic.

The setting up of this clinic has never met with my approval; it should be a satellite office of the Academy Hospital, staffed by them, which would ensure better control and personnel.

This Dr Means' credentials are minimal at best, fraudulent at worst. As for the chart, it's utter nonsense.

Dr Fraiser bringing this to me has gladden my day by presenting me with a most singular opportunity to make amends

Admittedly, I've approached the unique problems that the SGC presents to my profession badly, creating an animosity among many of those stationed here. People such as Colonel 'Jack' O'Neill, and especially Dr Daniel Jackson.

At one time, Dr Fraiser was counted there too, but she has personally seen my attempts to reform my approach to these brave people.

Unfortunately, when I first started here at the SGC, I had more in common with this Dr Means than I care to remember.

My inability to see beyond my training was my problem, believing that all that can be learned had been learned. I'd completely dismissed the fact that my knowledge never took into account alien worlds and their occupants, aliens. That there is a distinct possibility that these aliens might totally negate everything ever learned about the human mind and its reactions to its environment. My science was developed entirely in one environment. Earth.

It never occurred to me that the approved approach, and in my opinion, the only approach, no longer applied.

To my bitter chagrin, I was late to learn that I needed a new frame of reference, a new approach.

How could I have locked up Dr Jackson without thinking about a possible alien influence? Well, suffice it to say I really didn't believe in aliens, then.

My unwitting 'victims' were the catalyst, cracking open my mind to the truth of my own ignorance.

Actually, my first talk with Teal'c, the alien among us, created that crack. What he had to say about what could be found beyond the Stargate was beyond belief. Beyond mine at least.

When the SGC was taken over by hostile aliens only a few months later, my disbelief was shattered. That event allowed the cold hard light of reality to pour through the open breach in my mind, illuminating my deficiency in all of its arrogant nakedness. No longer could I deny how little I really knew about the human mind after what I had witnessed. Although I was only on the edge of that invasion, and hardly involved, I saw the results of what those aliens did to our personnel.

Unwillingly, I witnessed Colonel O'Neill's bravery, Dr Fraiser's helplessness, and Major Carter's near incoherency when unable to differentiate reality from unreality. And finally, General Hammond's grief at what had been done to his people.

No longer could I conveniently dismiss aliens as minor or non-existent. They were very real and humans reacted to them in ways no psychologist would ever dream of.

Being the consummate professional that I am, I took a month off to re-evaluate my worth to the project.

With a growing need, I began to rededicate myself to my science and to recognize that it was plowing unknown ground at the SGC.

I needed to see with new eyes.

Therefore, I decided to return and try to meet this new challenge with an open mind. Armed with the certain knowledge that I had to face the fact that I might never be trusted by those that I harmed through my own self deluded denial.

Dr Fraiser has just presented me with the means to show my former victims that I have changed.

I vow that I will ferret out this rogue doctor and I will not fail, again.

Tracking down this Dr Means' education and past positions will just be the beginning. And, if I can find any, I'll talk to his colleagues and patients. Knowing this man will enable me to insure that he never harms another, ever.

I owe this to Dr Jackson.

Lt. Eric Van Sickle

My conversation with Teal'c was a little strange; I'd never spoken to an alien before. Strange, since I've shot at more than one, but never a conversation with any.

He has a strange, professor-like way of speaking and despite myself I liked him. From a distance, he can appear menacing, but he really is a very gentle person. It's hard to reconcile this refined person with the training video's I've watched of him demonstrating Jaffa fighting techniques. He was ruthless and brutal, just as his fighting partner was. Colonel O'Neill.

At that time, I hadn't known who either of them was, and I thought they were fighting for real.

Only at the end of video did I, or anyone for that matter, realize that it was a demonstration.

We all found the 'outtakes' hilarious, helping to dull the edge of reality the demonstration presented.

Teal'c asked me many questions and I asked many of him. The strangest part was that his words seemed to drag me out into life again. I found our conversation intriguing, becoming a reluctant participant in it. However, there was a trend to his questions; he seemed to be comparing all of my answers to his estimate of Colonel O'Neill. As if he was trying to discover just how unlike other Earth soldiers his commander was or wasn't. It was obvious that he was curious about me, as he would be of anyone that the Colonel took an interest in. I should have been happy at the attention he paid to me, taking the time to speak with me, but I found it difficult to enjoy. My time here is limited and I will never be able to return. Pursuing a tie with this alien would be an act of futility.

What really floored me about Teal'c was his offer to tutor me in hand-to-hand combat. He says that I need to learn to compensate for my new limitations, learning to minimize them, conquering them. He acts as if that is what normally happens, that my 'limitations' as he refers to them as not an insurmountable block to a true warrior, that the warrior just needs to do a little adjusting of his skills to compensate for them.

No one has suggested this to me before.

That I can learn to overcome this, that maybe I could still do something worthwhile.

Well, that's not entirely true, Colonel O'Neill tried to tell me, and I wouldn't let him.

***

I'd been ordered to report to Colonel O'Neill's office.

In all my walking through the SGC, I had never come across it, and was reduced to asking one of the on-duty SF's for directions. Instead I got an escort; the Colonel's office is hidden down a short hallway off the main corridor leading to the commissary. All the doors along the hallway are marked 'storage.'

How bizarre.

The Colonel's office is the very last door before the fire doors leading to the emergency stairs. The SF muttered something about the SGC's greatest secret.

A bellowed 'come' answered my knock.

Upon pushing the door open, I find a tiny little space that appeared as if the architect had forgotten to erase a couple of left over lines on the blueprint. The door is situated dead center of one of the long walls. To the right of me is a desk sitting in front of two filing cabinets that are pushed into opposing corners, with a makeshift set of blocks and boards taken up with books about half their height between them. There is barely any room to get around the desk and just enough room between the desk and shelves for a chair. In the center of the room are two old chairs with wooden arms that are facing the desk.

On the left side of the room, is a metal cabinet, which reaches from the floor to nearly the ceiling, like a double-door locker. Wedged against the remaining span of short wall is a cot with two folded blankets at one end that is a neat as a pin. All of the walls are bare, except for the big red panic button and light switch close to the door. Even the desk seemed bare, just an empty in-basket, desk lamp, and computer monitor whose back is angled toward the door. In fact, I'd have to be behind the desk in order to see the screen.

The word 'Spartan' sprang to mind and for some reason 'desolate' closely followed it.

This meeting was something that I had not been looking forward to, I knew from the grapevine that Colonel O'Neill was avoiding me, even Dr Fraiser asked if I had talked to him since returning to the SGC.

Surely, the shit will hit now, and I'm about to pay for my lack of enthusiasm. At last, my just desserts. My last hurrah.

Standing to attention I saluted, he muttered 'at ease,' without looking up. All I saw was the top of his head as he bent over the papers before him.

"Dr Fraiser's report on your fitness is favorable."

His tone is flat, with no warmth, but no anger either. He still doesn't look up. Fidgeting, I felt a vague unknown guilt build inside me. It surprises me; my feelings have been so distant of late. Why is this one so close?

"A secure computer terminal has been installed in your quarters along with the secure files you'll need, and your assignment and its completion date. Do you have any questions?"

After that delivery, I'd better not have any questions, because I think I really screwed up with the Colonel. A nearly overwhelming sadness engulfs me, so much stronger and closer than the previous vague guilt was.

"No Sir. Colonel Sir."

"Dismissed."

With a sickening flash of déjà vu I saluted and backed through the door, hoping that he would look up. I had this foolish feeling that I needed forgiving and he was the only one who could provide it.

Slowly walking to my quarters, pushing the enigma that was Colonel O'Neill and how he operated to the back of my mind. A gossamer thread of desire built within me to see what this 'assignment' was all about.

Just what is it that the Colonel believed I could do, disabled as I am?

Rounding the last corner I spotted a SF, he stood guard before my door.

'Jeez, he wasn't kidding about secure.'

The SF thrust an inventory receipt at me, wanting my signature. The receipt was for the secure files, which meant that the SF had to have entered my room. Something I should have realized would happen when the Colonel mentioned the installation of equipment in my quarters. Still, it felt like a violation. You would think that I would be used to that feeling by now.

Stepping inside I had a further surprise; the room was completely redone. New bigger desk, state of the art computer, a secured locking cabinet had been bolted to the floor. Gone was my cot; in its place was a real bed. I'd also acquired an overstuffed chair with side table and lamp.

I was totally confused now. Why this?

Needing to get rid of the SF, I signed his receipt after double-checking it against what had been placed here.

As soon as he left, I sat down to boot the computer, running on an disinterested autopilot through the process of providing codes to connect, being prompted to change each as I went along, and at some points being offered new ones to memorize. Each new code, complete with the boilerplate of not keeping it written down for more time than needed to commit it to memory.

Now having a dozen new codes to remember I wondered just how many a man like O'Neill would have.

The last window to come up was the secure intra-base flash mail system. I had mail, marked eyes only, the kind that had to be opened and read, for once closed it destroyed itself, no copy would remain in the system. This one had attachments, which could be kept.

Opening the e-mail, I found that it was my 'assignment' from the Colonel. Ordering me to print off the attachments and follow their directions.

Okay, simple.

Starting the print, I read each page as it progressed. Each page stunned me more than the last.

This useless gimp in charge of an off world mission? Me?

Personnel were to be chosen by my review of the provided files and said personnel were to be under my command. My command!

But, that's impossible isn't it? Who in their right mind would obey me now? Let's not even think about my lowly rank, huh!

Then I read the proposal to create a new level of personnel in the military, starting with the SGC, to keep disabled personnel in non-combat zones to free up those who were still battle fit. About the importance of keeping the knowledge and expertise where it was needed for the protection of Earth. Almost against my will, this started to energize me.

Astounded, I found I agreed with the project, but I also knew that I didn't belong in it. My disappointment, as heavy as the mountain above me, effectively crushed my newborn need. My sudden want meant nothing; I didn't meet the guidelines. Desolation took root, as with dismay I realized that I had no experience or real expertise. Glancing around my now more comfortable quarters I saw it for the bribe it had to be. This was a taunt; I had nothing to offer.

What the hell!

This is about HIS guilt. No way will I let this slide by!

My laboriously nurtured tendrils of energy and interest withered, blackening into a coal dust that ignites to feed an anger birthing deep within me. The fragile scabious shell over my feelings bursts open before that anger, allowing it to ooze forth.

Calmly putting everything away properly, I retraced my steps back to that hidden little office. I didn't brother to knock; I only had about a month left before the Air Force will kick me out, and had nothing to lose. The Colonel's 'assignment' illustrated that. Now the oozing anger deep within flared into a flame, fed by the weeks of hopelessness, bleakness and pain I had lived through. It fueled my words and actions.

"You bastard!"

I shouted as I burst in. Heated anger engulfed me, I felt shielded and protected by it. My words are a whip and I lash out.

"How dare you screw with me like this."

The man behind the desk acted as if I didn't exist as I shouted again.

"Do you hear me?"

My shout was not as loud this time. No reaction, as if he were alone. Slamming my open hand onto his desk, he didn't even flinch, and all I did was make my hand burn dully. My fiery shield froze at the remembrance of other such occasions when my violent anger met no resistance. There was no resistance because it was never perceived, as I hadn't been perceived. Then as now, I did not exist.  Shunned my shield shattered, I faltered.

"Damn it, don't ignore me!"

It was my father all over again. I nearly sobbed. Please, not again!

Suddenly I found myself transfixed by his eyes; I painfully swallowed a sob, as the deep amber depths of those eyes threw back a glow from the desk lamp memorizing me. Freezing before his predatory gaze, I was totally defenseless.

"And I did."

Shit! He did this deliberately. The dorm, my shouting him down... payback! The whole god damned thing was a military maneuver to him. He hasn't the slightly idea what he just did to me. Please God, he couldn't have known, could he?

"I can't do what you want me to do."

Piteously, I whine out those words, I'm forced to wonder how every man I look up to can hurt me like this. Why do they feel they must reduce me to a quivering wreck? I have an overwhelming urge to check my back for a 'kick me' sign.

"Why?"

'Why?' he asks? My father always forced me to humiliate myself. Is the Colonel the same way? Is that what is happening or am I so well conditioned that I expect it? Falling back on old responses, I begin my self-humiliation.

"The guidelines, I don't meet them."

"This is the pilot project. You're not part of the project... yet. So again, why can't you do this?"

Pilot project? Unable to wrap my brain around his words; my anger resurges and helps provide my next words.

"Because it's about your guilt."

Only by leaning against the Colonel's desk can I remain upright as my legs threaten to dump me on the floor. Unwillingly I'm held erect by those soul-searching eyes before me.

"Could be, but the same answer applies to that also and additionally you will sink or swim through your own efforts. Again, why can't you do this?"

What is the answer? What does he want? Finding it hard to think, I feel I'm living a nightmare. My father told me that I would always be a failure.

"Because I can't."

"Why? Give me some specifics here. I don't understand, are you brain damaged?"

His words have a sarcastic bite to them; his non-anger grates like shake's teeth before sinking deep into my wounded heart. I'm not even worth his anger! Yet, his eyes tell me something different. Confused, I don't know what to believe.

"No, I'm not, my brain is just fine. I... I just can't."

"That's not an answer, that's denial. Just explain to me why you can't do this."

Oh God! Is he channeling Dr Means? Can't I escape this somehow?

"I'm not experienced enough."

Inexperienced and uselessly maimed. Unwanted, unloved, a failure.

"Experience is not needed, ability is needed. Do you lack the ability?"

His questions hammer at my chaotic thoughts forcing them into familiar and safe paths, my recent training kicks in and I automatically respond.

"No, I've been trained for it and have the ability, but there are others more able."

"Who?"

"I don't know."

Is that what he's trying to get across, that I'm not thinking, that I haven't been thinking for a long time. I feel a ghost of hope.

"You just told me that there are others more able, surely you know who?"

"No, I don't. There just has to be."

There has to be someone better suited, I desperately search my mind.  Not only have I lost an eye and fingers, but apparently my mind as well.

"Has to be? But you don't know who? You believe there are others who can do this better... or did someone imply that to you?"

"You must know someone better than me."

I fall back on my belief that someone is better suited. But why do I believe that? What does he mean 'someone implied'?

"No, I don't. I see all the promising ones, dozens every year. You are the first, the only one I've found."

I can't think. The only one! ME!

"But..."

'The only one?'

Those three words echo endlessly through my frozen brain. This is nuts!

"No, buts. I believe you can do this. You are the only one who doesn't believe."

'He believes?' I believe... what... who do I believe... because I was told. Yes, I was told that I couldn't. My God, Dr Means put that thought in my head. Was I manipulated long before the Colonel had?

A numb disbelief engulfs me. How could I have been talked into believing such a thing?

"I can do this?"

This is really nuts... I was convinced of my own worthlessness, talked into it by a perfect stranger.

'Can I?'

"Yep, no problem. Will you?"

For the first time in this disaster, his face shows some emotion -- hope. My gutted soul yearns for it, gathering its visage into itself, smearing it across the charred expanse there, salving the desolation.

"Do I have a choice?"

"No. You have less than a week before you take your team off world, I'll be there to observe, but this is your mission."

"Sir... But... I..."

Having no words, I can't believe this. How can he believe in me? How can I?

"Just do you job son, I know you can do it."

With the ghost image of his caring eyes cradled in my memory, I find it difficult to break away from the support his desk gives me. Staggering to the door, I stumble through on trembling legs, his confident words ringing through my head. One question stands solid in the haze of emotion my mind has become.

Can I do this?

Dr Daniel Jackson

Arriving at the library early I settle down on the steps to wait, I even brought my own book to help pass the time.

Jack would pitch a fit if he knew I snuck it out of his office. I could have picked up a copy at the Academy, but I wanted to read his copy, read his notations. He wrote the book in my hands, Jacob told me about it right after Eric had been injured, about that little C-4 trick mentioned in it and about Jacob's own book describing it in detail.

Jack has Jacob's book too, he made notations in it, I checked.

However, I had to do that at his house, he had removed the book from his office... after Eric.

The interesting part about the notations in it are all the notes around Jacob's description of the C-4 trick, I think that is where Jack learned about it. His notes are clear about that and his search for someone to demonstrate it. He didn't write down who taught him how to do it, but he did write down in excited terms learning about it. Yet, on the other page his excitement sobers as he briefly describes the injuries his unknown tutor described occurring due to this practice of using C-4 like sterno.

He finishes with an admonishment to never pass on the technique, to end the cycle of senseless accidents.

Jacob's book is in the bibliography of Jack's.

I've read nearly the entire book, he wrote about how the troops in Viet Nam survived without the support of their nation or even their own commanders. Many of the men were not regular military, but drafted, sent to survive by their own skills alone. It's a somber book; Jack notes each mistake that could have been rectified easily even under the conditions that existed at that time.

Jack's pain at the waste of those young men shines through clearly.

The man is smarter than he lets on; I figured that out a long time ago.

Many don't know about his heart, his caring, that's why I'm here.

This 'resonance' he feels with Eric, is too close, too painful. I really hate it when he feels he needs to punish himself to get at the truth. There are some things that others can do, but he will not pass on a distasteful task to others if he can do it himself. He surprised me by allowing me to do this for him; he's showing me the depth of his trust in me.

The sound of approaching steps causes me to glance up. Lt. Roy has arrived. He is out of uniform, dressed in blue jeans, hiking boots and a jean jacket over a tucked-in light blue T-shirt. He wears sunglasses, he reminds me of Jack a bit, but then they are both aviators, with like mindsets.

"Dr Jackson?"

"Yes?"

"This may sound inane, but can I see some ID?"

He scans the area looking for... someone, while I present my wallet.

"Sure. Still worried about those people you mentioned?"

"Yeah." He hands my ID back after scanning it; then picks up my book looking intently at it. "What's this?"

"Oh, that's one of Jack's books, his copy, I wanted to read his notes."

He opens the book up and examines a few pages before reverently handing it back to me.

"You really are a friend of Colonel O'Neill aren't you?"

The envy in his eyes surprises me.

"Yes, we met about six years ago, friends for almost five now."

"What's he like?"

"Jack...well, he's Jack. There is no simple way to describe him; you have to know him. Sorry, that's the best that I can do."

His disappointment is evident as I realize that Jack has another professional admirer.

"Yeah, I've seen him twice now, that was the impression I got. You're lucky to know him."

"I know. Believe me I know. Can we talk about what's been happening to Eric and these people you mentioned?"

"Okay, it started when Eric was assigned to my room after leaving the hospital..."

Thad described the decline of a determined, upbeat young man to a near defeated husk.

Eric was required to go to counseling, with a Dr Means through the on-campus mental health clinic at the Academy. He would go for an hour a day each day and Thad saw him become more listless, lose his focus, and became more fragile with each visit. He eventually got Eric to talk about the sessions, discovering that Dr Means was trying to convince him that he could do no more than vegetate now. Drumming into him that he was too damaged to successfully accomplish anything of worth. That he should just give up.

Thad told me about his anger when he realized that Eric was being nearly brainwashed by someone he was required to see. It galled him to know that someone with such promise was being treated that way; the effrontery of it all galvanized him. He got Eric to confide in him, hearing things he never told anyone except for Dr Means. And only then because he had been ordered to.

Thad took it upon himself to confront the good doctor and was threatened by a couple of men two days later. These same men began accosting Eric in the most unsavory of ways, Thad caught them taunting Eric with his supposed uselessness and why didn't he just end it all.

Just hearing this raised my ire. How could anyone threaten an injured man? Actually two 'anyones,' such a cowardly thing to do.

Thad tried to talk to others on campus that had seen Dr Means. Those few he had spoken to showed no ill effects, but none of them were seeing the doctor as often or for anything near as serious as Eric was. In addition, none of them ever encountered the men he and Eric had. Then the men began following him around campus, trying to scare him off and they threatened to rough up Eric if he didn't. So, Thad wouldn't leave Eric alone for a second after that and spent nearly two weeks standing between him and the rest of the world.

Then Jack shows up on their doorstep and observes the aftermath of this travesty.

"...I was hoping that Colonel O'Neill would help Eric out, but after what Eric told me about their conversation, I was convinced that no help would be coming from him. I'm glad I was wrong."

"Thad, I'm sorry, if I had known how serious the situation was I would have come sooner. As Jack's... eh, Colonel O'Neill's eyes and ears, I'm trying to get to the truth. I'll let him know what is going on, he'll get to the bottom of this, I'm sure."

"Thanks. I'm grateful to the Colonel already; getting Eric off Academy grounds keeps him out of the reach of that doctor and his buddies. I just wish I knew what they're trying to accomplish. Bye Dr Jackson, again thanks."

Thad skipped down the steps back the way he came; I watch the crowd hoping to see someone step out to follow him. That doesn't happen, that would be too easy and such a bad sign. Maybe those men have given up on following him since Eric is no longer Thad's to guard.

Picking up my book, I too have another place to be. Jack needs to know about this.

Colonel Jack O'Neill

My hands tremble as I stare down at them.

O'Neill Shock Treatment, patent pending, leaving the user as shocked as the usee. So not a pleasant experience.

Ya think!

Why would anyone take a vulnerable, injured young man and cut him off at the knees like this, I really need to know why, and I hope Danny comes up with something.

My body shudders in remembrance as images flash before my eyes, images of things I really don't want to see. Ever.

I know that I'll see them again. As long as I live, that is.

And, that was the point, as long as I lived. They wanted me to die.

They wanted me to kill myself.

They nearly convinced me.

That I was no good to anyone and I nearly believed them. Convincing me that I would destroy my wife, my marriage, my soon to be born child.

God!

They were right; in the end, but not for the reasons they gave.

Roughly, I scrub my hands over my face in an attempt to erase those long ago events. If only it were that simple. Pushing them back into that overfilled box of pain, I mentally stomp on the lid to get the latch to take.

At the click in my head, I heave a sigh of relief.

[see Chapter Four]