Walked Right Out of the Machinery, by Rydra Wong (PG-13/R)

[figs_sg1_rec]

Rec Category: Episode related
Pairing: none
Categories: episode related, gen, AU, Jack O'Neill, drama, team, novel
Warnings: language, violence, minor character death, psychological trauma. Did I mention the language?
Author on LJ: rydra_wong
Author's Website: fic post
Link: walked right out of the machinery

Why This Must Be Read: This story is made of wow. You can tell, from the very beginning, that Rydra worked on this novel for months. It's not just written; it's crafted, and it is a seriously amazing piece of work.

Rydra takes us into a harrowing AU, complete with realistic shifting of storylines and stellar characterization: the events of Abyss go differently. Kanan does not leave Jack before they're captured by Ba'al, and events twist and dance away from canon as Jack's prolonged absence from the SGC creates a new reality.

Fury and frustration, and an amazing rendition of the Tok'ra; competent Sam, and an achingly-beautiful Jack and Teal'c friendship (the scene where Teal'c offers solace with silence will break your heart); the stuggle for the definition of self and honor and right and wrong. Jacob Carter and Bra'tac have marvelous cameos, as does a frustrated Ascended Daniel. Hammond is the leader we know and love, and several other minor characters - Malek of the Tok'ra, Satterfield, Pierce, and more - are brought vividly, lovingly, to life.

But most of all, this is Jack O'Neill's story. Stubborn to the last, amazingly himself. I dare you to read this and not fall in love with it.


"You're in excellent health, at any rate," Fraiser says. They both know that's not always a good sign around here. "Now ..." She hesitates. "Ba'al's lo'taur told the Tok'ra that he used the sarcophagus on you a number of times. It's possible that you may have developed a dependency."

Shallan. It means she reached the base safely, and his heart clutches with relief. He'd taken her as close as he dared, shoved her towards the rings before he gated out again, because he couldn't (wanted to) keep her with him, because she looked at him with wide frightened eyes and he started to, to – he needed to get away. Needed to make sure she was safe, from everyone. From him. Then get the hell away, somewhere where he could think clearly.

Fraiser's still looking at him, as if she's waiting for a response. He replays his memory of the last few minutes and registers the rest of what she said. Dependency. Such a polite little euphemism. Meaning is he going to be hitting the withdrawal shakes anytime soon, and should she get the restraints and the sedatives ready.

He shakes his head. "Nope. I'm clean." Made damn sure of that, stranded himself so he didn't have any options except cold turkey. No other options. Let yourself fall, let yourself want that (to be healthy to be whole to be okay, warm bright light that smoothes everything out) and there's only one way it can end.

He's not sure if he expects her to believe it – junkies lie, and it's not like she can check his arms for track marks – but she only nods.

"We're nearly done, but I'd like to get a blood sample. Will you let me do that?"

She's already ripping open a packet to pull out a fresh needle, but the question sounds genuine. As if she wouldn't insist if he said no. And that makes it easy to give the traditional grimace of distaste and shove his sleeve up his arm for her.

She swabs a cotton pad across the inside of his elbow, and he feels the chill of alcohol evaporating. Look away, deep breath, he hates it but at least it's a familiar nuisance. Then there's the hard pinch of the needle, steel sliding under his skin like a blade –

Somehow he's on his feet, on the other side of the room, hands raised defensively in front of him. One of the trolleys has been kicked over, and the floor is covered in shattered glass (fragments, edges, gleaming). His throat is sore, as if he's been shouting.

Carter's halfway across the room, her eyes wide. Behind the dark glass of the observation gallery, one of the Tok'ra is on his feet. Fraiser is standing perfectly still, the syringe still poised in her hand.

He tries to shrug, tries to smile. "Oh, you know me and needles."

A small line forms between Fraiser's eyebrows. "In English please, colonel," she says gently.

His Arabic's pretty good and he can get by in Spanish and Farsi, but somehow he doesn't think that's what he was yelling in.