by Whyagain
Bang.
Stance. Align. Brace. Squeeze.
Bang.
She sees herself differently now. She's not so sure she wants to know this new person, this woman.
Bang.
She was never all that good with women and things haven't changed. She still doesn't see the point of different Phys-Ed classes and locker rooms. There's not much there that can surprise her.
Bang.
Reload. Snap. Lock.
She holds her gun differently. She's sure they will notice.
Bang. Bang.
She was never much for the Smith and Wesson, either as a sidearm or general target, but the range isn't made for MP90s or ZATs. Hell, she can annihilate a tree trunk at 200 yards and stun twenty Jaffa at half that. What good is a twelve-round clip?
If falling was like guns, she could just shoot him and get it over with.
The women's locker room is empty. She figures the men's is, too, on a Sunday afternoon. She could have been at the gym, but the base's range called to her. She doesn't remember if she's washed her hair, so she washes it again. The industrial soap smells like chlorine and toxicity.
She cleans her gun on her dining room table. She doesn't worry about losing the pieces or having them carried off by miniature hands. She sets the barrel next to her spoon. She's having soup from a can.
She repeats drills. The pieces come together and separate easily in her hands, her eyes locked onto a spot on the wall. She can't look; she doesn't cheat.
She never believed she had a reason for a gun in her own house. The neighborhood is well enough, the community elderly and/or connubial. They water their lawns and play bridge on Saturdays. They hate blacks and Jews and Arabs and Mexicans that don't do their chores. It is an American suburb.
She never kept a gun on her night stand or under her pillow. She never saw any reason for it.
Now she does.
She feels like she needs it all of the time. Like a fix, she pulls it from its holster or rubs her wrist over its resting place at the small of her back. She needs it now.
She's no superhero.
Her soup grows cold as she dismantles and reassembles the pieces of her security. She's not hungry and it tastes like cardboard.
She wants a piece of chocolate, which is why she never keeps any in the house. She substitutes her stomach for a tub of scalding water and a handful of bath salts. She forgoes the Chardonnay.
Her skin turns red at the slightest pressure. It's always that way. She hates that kind of weakness.
She reaches for her gun and not the towel as she steps out of the tub. Security doesn't come in the form of a robe and slippers. It's not that simple anymore.
She doesn't feel comfortable in her tank and cotton pants. She doesn't feel comfortable in her white socks. She wants to wear her boots to bed, but brushes her teeth a few extra minutes to quell the urge. She scrubs her face and breathes through her mouth.
She scoffs.
She used to be a superhero.
She wakes sometime in the night with a start and a gun clutched in her convulsing hands, remembering bits of an awful nightmare. There was a fundamental truth imparted, she knows, but she falls asleep and forgets to cry.
The day comes too early and she wishes she could find a phone booth.
She takes her Honda and a studded leather jacket to work. She doesn't feel any more confident with a pea shooter strapped to her ankle.
The SF guarding the door studies her as she hands him her small armory. She places two guns, a clip, and a box of ammo in his little basket and wards him away with her stare. She doesn't remember why they have a metal detector.
Her lab is dark and she reaches in to turn on the overhead lights before entering. She hasn't done that since she was three.
She works on a suit of body armor. She works on a motherboard. She works on a useless light and backs up her hard drive. She forgets her appointments.
When a child masquerading as an officer comes to retrieve her, she threatens him with a dead staff weapon. She locks herself in after he leaves. She thinks about hacking into the mainframe and turning the cameras off, but she goes back to taking her cup warmer apart.
“Carter.“
The intercom winks at her.
“Hey, Carter.“
She doesn't open the door, but can't help going to it.
“Yes, sir?“
“Lemme in, will ya?“
There's no debate. She's used to orders, at least.
“Carter, Thompson says you didn't make the egghead meeting.“ He looks around the lab at the strewn remains of her mug warmer, Doctor Roberts' laptop and two desk lamps. “What's up?“
“Working, sir.“ She tries to hide the soddering iron and a pile of ashes.
“Something important?“
“I think I had a breakthrough with the Goa'uld energy sources that power the staffs and ZATs.“
“Oh. Is that why you killed Roberts' computer?“ He picks up the case and she wishes he wouldn't act so damn clueless all the time.
“Needed the parts, sir. I'll make him a new one.“
“Carter, Selman told me you waved a staff weapon in his face. And Wesler from upstairs told me you were packing this morning. You wanna talk or something?“
“Nothing to talk about, sir. I was just engrossed. Didn't want to be interrupted. I'll go apologize to Selman.“
She moves to leave not bothering to address his other inquiry. That was none of Wesler's damn business anyway.
“Carter, hold up a minute.“
“Sir?“
“You're sure you're okay? Nothing you want to get off your chest or anything?“
“I'm fine, sir.“
“Because you've been acting . . . quirky for the last few weeks. Nothing you wanna say?“
“No, sir.“
“You sure?“
“Positive, sir.“
She doesn't go to apologize to Selman.
She wants to leave. She wants to take her badge and her gun and fly somewhere far away. She wants to find her phone booth and stop this spiral.
She goes to the infirmary.
“Hey, Sam. Something wrong?“ Janet's separating tools into piles.
“Wrong? No. Everything's fine.“ Everything always has to be fine. Janet reminds her of that. “Just needed to get out of the lab for a little bit.“ She figures no one will look for a crazy woman in the infirmary. “Need help with anything?“
“Actually, no. Things have been pretty slow, what with Sergeant Siler on vacation and all.“ She smiles. It's such a strange sort of intimacy. “So what are you taking a break from?“
“Power sources.“ She tests a scalpel's edge against her finger. It slices the skin and she wonders why she's bleeding. It's such a small wound to bleed like it does. It doesn't hurt enough to bleed.
“Sam!“ Janet's by her side in an instant with a sterile wipe and a bandage. She wonders if she flew there; it seems impossible for her to be there always with medical supplies on hand like her grandmother had tissues and butterscotch candies.
“Sorry,“ she murmurs, pulling away before Janet has the chance to bind her cut. “I only came here to help,“ she says at the door.
The jogging trail is empty, probably because it's raining, or because it's a quarter 'til one in the morning. The streets are empty as she runs past the homes and families dotting the suburbs. But she doesn't like to dwell.
She wishes she could fly above the clouds to see the stars. But she can't anymore.
She figures she's falling because of gravity--because she was flying. But at some point she stopped. And now she's falling.
Her feet pound the pavement and carry her all the way into town. She stands beneath a flickering neon sign weighing her options. She figures she has nothing to lose.
She's sure she's not slurring as she tells the man behind the counter she needs more beer. He give her a small smirk and fills her mug from a dirty spout.
Somehow, her shoes are off and she's wobbling atop a pool table singing . . . something.
She used to be a superhero.
The bartender comes over and tells her he'll call her a cab if her ride doesn't show. She tells him she didn't drive. Somehow, that made all the sense in the world.
But she finds herself being guided out the door, a hand placed firmly on the small of her back.
“Where's your car?“ a voice whispers in her ear.
She tells the voice proudly that she didn't drive.
“You walked here?“ asks the voice.
She responds with some variation of, “I ran.“
She doesn't want to ask the voice if it's her conscience; she honestly doesn't want to know.
She can't be sure, but the voice seems to lift her into a very large truck. It's hard to keep from leaning back, and then it's hard to do anything at all.
Something inside of her recognizes the water stain on the corner of her ceiling. She feels the shock of a cold washcloth on her forehead and realizes she's laying down. She hopes she's not drooling.
“Hey. Welcome back.“
The voice is there and she's glad, but can't say just why.
“Here. Drink this.“
The voice hands her a mug of tomato juice and she smells coffee being brewed somewhere. She hopes she doesn't vomit.
“Water,“ she groans. “You're supposed to drink water.“
“Well, I'm glad you're aware of that. But that right there has massive amounts of salt. Salt helps you retain water. Now drink.“
Hands brush hers to push the mug to her lips and she comes close to spilling it.
Oh.
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
She jumps up, dislodging the cloth and a blanket, and fumbles her cup. But her head reels and she find herself falling.
“Easy, Carter. Easy.“ He eases her into a sitting position, saving the drink from certain doom.
“Shit.“
“Come on, Carter. I've been here all night. You gonna wig out on me now?“
“Time?“ she croaks.
“Oh, I don't know. It could be somewhere around . . . eleven.“
“Shit,“ she breathes. “Oh, shit.“
If all her senses were intact, she would be furious with him. But, as it is, she doesn't have enough capacity to be as mortified as she should be.
“What--why--“ She can't find the proper question. She fears there isn't one.
“I got a call from Bernie. Said you downed five shots in ten minutes and it didn't look like you were gonna stop any time soon.“ He leans back against the front of her couch, pushing the coffee table away.
She's too humiliated to speak.
“I thought I'd find you more in the mood to talk about what's really bothering you.“
Blessedly, she knows the answer to this one.
“I'm fine, sir.“ She remembers the sir. She tries to always remember her sirs.
He scrubs his face with his hands like it hurts him. Maybe it does. She can't quite mind right now. “Jesus, Carter. I pull you out of a bar at two in the morning, sopping wet and stone drunk, and you're gonna tell me you're fine?“
What can she tell him? That she's falling? That she lost her super powers and is having a hard time adjusting to living like a mortal?
“Sir, I don't want you to take this the wrong way or read into it or anything, but I can't tell you.“ That actually doesn't sound half bad. It's a sentence, at least.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?“
She doesn't tell him he's yelling. He probably isn't, but her ears ring like he shouted into a megaphone.
“It means . . . It means it's taken care of. It means it won't be a problem anymore.“
He keeps rubbing his forehead and she's sure he can't have the headache she does, but doesn't want to downplay it.
“It means I won't let it affect me again.“
She can tell from his look that he didn't want the military response, the recorded mantra. She knows he was trying to be a friend, taking her home, laying her down, letting her sleep it off, but they can't be friends.
She feels she should tell him, explain to him, that they are colleagues--teammates. She wants him to understand that this profession, this life and death stuff, excludes certain things. She needs him to know she's doing this for everyone.
But how can she explain? And then she knows.
“You're a superhero,“ she says.
It makes all the sense in the world to her, but he walks out. And she figures that's better than having to shoot him.
*~*~*~*~*
whyagain
january-february 2007
*~*~*~*~*
“'Cause I used to be a superhero. I would swoop down and save me from myself. And you were like a phone booth that I somehow stumbled into. And now look at me. I am just like everybody else.“ --Superhero, Ani Difranco