It had, all things considered, been one of those weeks. You know the kind. Your dog forgets that he's a well-trained three year old and chews the laces off the dress-shoes that you need for that hideously dull official do. You loose the keys to your pick-up - four times. You work such late hours that even the bottleshops are closed before you get home and collapse dressed into your bed. It was exactly one of those weeks that Lieutenant Colonel Cameron Mitchell had been having. And now, finding himself with his back to the wall on some alien planet and the rest of his team God only knew where, he had this sinking feeling that it wasn't about to get any better any time soon.
The sound of gun fire rattled closer. He shrank himself down even more compactly behind the rise upon which the stargate had been built, and tried to get a look at what was going on out there. He figured the sound of guns had to be a good thing. It meant that his people were still alive and kicking. That, or the bad guys had really flipped and had started shooting at each other. Hell, he'd seen it happen before.
He ran a hand across his forehead. Either way, he were stuck here. It was a really screwed-up world. This was the sort of thing Sam was supposed to be doing.
He forced himself to look at the bomb. It sat and stared right back at him with that insufferable insolence one frequently finds among inanimate objects liable to blow up with a loud boom and turn you into a rain of silly putty.
Yup, one of those weeks alright. He put his gun, still cocked, at his feet and crawled a little closer to it. No way was this his field of expertise. He was more a gum-chewing, gun-toting, report-reading, good-natured kind of guy, not one who defuses bombs in his spare time. Sam, where the hell are you?
The numbers - glyphs - poker symbols - whatever the hell they were - that were counting down could have been measuring apples and oranges for all he knew, but you didn't need a degree in cross-cultural-translation to figure out that each time they changed, it was one digit closer to the aforementioned boom-and-silly-putty-scenario.
Cam! Focus, man.
A red wire, a black wire, a white wire, a green one.
Yeah, just like in the movies. If he had the singlet, he could pretend he were Bruce Willis and make like he knew what he was doing.
Hang on. Mental rewind.
A green wire.
A green wire?
The alternate Cameron Mitchell, that smartass version of himself who had caused them so much trouble - he had mentioned a green wire as his smirking final comment.
"Hey Mitchell…when the time comes…cut the green one."
Question was, was this that green one?
The digits on the bomb twitched even as he thought.
He visualised little pieces of himself flying all around what would be left of the stargate. Not pretty.
The digits twitched.
If he didn't defuse it, then there would be no way his team could get back home, presuming they were still okay.
The digits twitched.
He got out his knife. Cut the green one.
Really?
He knew himself well enough to know how twisted his sense of humour could be. And that had definitely been the darkside version of himself, even if he hadn't come from the evil-twin universe. For all he knew, the guy had been jerking him around, messing with his head.
The digits twitched.
His dog would be really pissed if he didn't get home and feed it at some stage.
The digits twitched.
Then there was the pretty little thing at the corner store that he'd been making friends with.
The digits twitched.
Oh, god, yes, and his computer. He had really planned on wiping some stuff off the hard drive before he kicked the bucket and the SGC sent a team round to go through his gear.
He thought about the silly-putty.
Jesus, Cam, make your choice.
The digits twitched.
Cut the green one, right?
Guts in gear, be brave, all that jazz.
He chose his wire, shut his eyes, and cut—