briarwood

“To our knowledge,” Martouf said, “no one has ever escaped from Netu.” As he spoke, his eyes turned to Sam. It seemed almost involuntary; when their eyes met he looked away, as if ashamed.

O’Neill’s eyebrows moved skyward. “Oh.” His tone spoke volumes.

“No one,” Martouf added, “except for Jolinar.” This time his glance at Sam was more deliberate.

Sam blinked.

The last crystal controlling her ship was about to die, the crack in its centre lengthening as she watched. When the crystal broke, there would be no more power, no more heat. She would die here in space, slowly drifting toward home, never to reach it.

It was better so. She couldn’t bear to see him again, knowing how deeply she had betrayed him. This way, she would not have to break his heart. She would not see the hurt in his eyes.

Hell was not pain and suffering. Hell was being desperate enough to discard every standard, every principle she lived by, in order to escape. The fires of Netu still scorched her skin, the memory of the toxic air burned her lungs. The dirt and ash itched on her skin, filth crusted under her fingernails, matting strands of her hair.

But the dirt wasn’t the reason for the feeling she would never be clean again.

Sam blinked and swallowed, hard, to banish the stomach-churning emotion that wasn’t hers.

“Oh,” she said. With only the smallest glimmer of understanding what this would cost, she nodded to Martouf, then looked at O’Neill.

She didn’t need to tell him. He knew. I’m in.