Cracks in the Glass

It was bizarre, to sit across from yourself at a table. But not really yourself—a copy of yourself. A copy for which the carbon had been offset just that much.

Long hair. Non-military. Soft. Those were the major obvious differences. Pure science—without the stringent focus on application. Or rather, without the focus on military application. Doctor Samantha Carter's efforts on behalf of the Stargate Agency had been largely in the best interests of science itself, and not in any attempt to protect Earth from what might have entered through that open 'Gate. Or rather, Doctor Samantha Carter O'Neill.

Can of fish hereby officially opened.

Sam looked down at the bolt she'd been playing with for the past fifteen minutes. She normally didn't fiddle with things much—unaccustomed as she was to having idle hands. Splaying her fingers, she looked down at the pads of her thumb and index finger, where the grooves of the bolt had made angry red indentations. When she rubbed the digits together, they rasped against each other like corrugated tin roofing. Pressing the bolt between her fingers again, she welcomed the sting as the heavy grooves dug into her skin.

She wondered if Samantha sometimes needed that kind of stimulation—something unpleasant, something wrong that sent fire flooding back into systems that had become all but inured to pain. Probably not. The good doctor had practically swooned at the thought of being the good Major instead. She didn't seem to be the sort to embrace discomfort—she most likely considered Spinning Class to be the height of physical challenges. So, no boot camp. No running through alien jungles trying to escape alien bad guys. No exhilarated thrill at taking first blood in knife fights with Genghis Khan wannabes. Sam was smart—she could extrapolate from the given evidence that Samantha Carter O'Neill wasn't into pain. So, no bolts. Besides, the ugly steel fastener would clash with those sparkly wedding rings she'd been wearing.

With a flick of her wrist, the Major cast the chunky piece of metal away. Catching the light from the hallway, it sailed over the far edge of the table, landing with a clunk on the cement floor before skittering under one of the cabinets on the opposite wall.

Her lab was dark. Gloomy, even. She'd turned off some of the winky blinky arrays, content to let the secondaries upstairs take over for a while. For whatever reason, her laboratory had seemed hot, and oppressive, and close. Too—much—with the constant on-and-off of the indicator lights. But perhaps it was just the current situation that was so unsettling. At least when Daniel had been sent to his alternate reality, his alter-ego had been dead. He'd never had to sit across a table from him, breathe the same air, or inhabit the same lab space. He'd never ended up face to face with himself and come away from the encounter with the sinking suspicion that he was lacking something.

Sighing, Sam threaded her fingers together, resting her forehead on her knuckles, determined not to look at the machine on the tabletop in front of her. She should have figured it would come to this—Entropic Cascade Failure. Should have known the powers that be would decide to move the heavens and earths of two distinct realities in order to preserve the Doctor's life. And of course, the Major was tasked with figuring out how to accomplish that feat.

For the sparest of moments, she'd wondered how it would be to believe like Teal'c—that only their own reality mattered. She'd never envied the Jaffa before. Never yearned for a simpler, less complicated outlook on life. Not until now.

"Sam?"

Daniel. Sam looked over her shoulder to where he stood, just outside her door. Forcing a smile, she relaxed her posture. "Come on in."

He shoved his hands into his pockets as he moved forward. "Where's Doctor Carter?"

"She had another—incident." Sam watched as he got closer. "Janet called her back to the infirmary for some more tests."