The sun was shining brightly in the cloudless Colorado sky as Jack tossed his jacket to the ground and dropped down to the ground beside it to use a large tree trunk as a backrest. The mountains held a particularly haunting grandeur in the fall of the year, and the colonel never hesitated to take advantage of a break in his schedule to hightail it up 28 floors to the surface. The sounds of nature were so soothing in comparison to the mechanical vibrations in the artificial world beneath the mountain. If only that damn woodpecker...
"Shit! Come!" Jack leaned hastily forward in his desk chair, and scrambled madly for his pen. He'd barely gotten the manila folder in front of him open, when Daniel poked his head around the door.
"Jack? Sam, Teal'c and I are headed into town to see that new Bond flick. Wanta come?"
"Daniel, I told you earlier that I'll be doing paperwork in the brig if I don't get this report finished."
"So that's a no?"
"Yes, that's a no, or yes, I'm coming with you, to hell with the report?"
"Right. Yes, that's a no. Gotcha." Daniel's head disappeared, then popped back into view quickly. "It's a beautiful day!"
"Go!" Jack's hoarse shout coincided with a hastily tossed pen, which Daniel barely avoided by shutting the door posthaste.
"It's a beautiful day, Jack. We're gonna see a movie, Jack. Wanta play hooky, Jack? ... No, General, I didn't finish that report for the Pentagon. See, there was this movie..." Jack sighed heavily as he bent to retrieve his pen. "Sheez, O'Neill, you're losing it."
Dropping heavily into his chair, Jack stared forlornly at the bright red manila folder. The one containing the seventh rewrite of the events on PX2-717. He hated reports. He hated rewrites. He hated PX2-717, and he really hated the number seven. Course, he'd never been overly fond of any of the prime numbers - where the hell did that come from? - but today, seven was particularly vexing. Seven chevrons had taken his team to a planet where they'd been held prisoner for seven days, tried by a tribunal of seven judges, sentenced to prison for seven years before they managed to escape, eluding seven different sets of pursuers to make it to the Stargate, where seven chevrons took them home.
"Get a grip, O'Neill. You've gotta finish this re..." His thoughts faded away as he caught sight of the latest in a series of boredom inspired doodles. Really, that one on the right looked a lot like the marvelous profile - at least from the neck down - of Rebecca Sternberger. It just needed to be filled out a little more in ... Becca'd been unusually well-endowed for fifteen, but with three older brothers on the football team, no one had ever been able to do more than look. But God, he'd tried, oh how he'd tried, but a perfectly good conversation had been interrupted by the damn school bell, and he...
"What the hell?" Jack glanced around in confusion, pulled hastily, albeit reluctantly, back from his high school biology lab. The sound of the claxons indicating 'incoming traveler' were deafening even on his office level. His senses went automatically on alert, relaxing only when the all clear sounded.
"This is *not* getting anything done." Sighing heavily, he picked up the latest draft, and found a misspelled word sticking out like a sore thumb. Irritably attempting to scratch it out, he found that the felt tip on his pen had dried up. "Oh for crying out loud!" Angrily chucking the offending item into the trashcan, he rummaged through his desk for a replacement.
"Ah ha! It writes!" Jack found himself staring at the ink color. Green. Who the hell edited a report with green ink? He didn't even know they had green ink pens at the SGC. He hadn't seen green ink since his academy days with Professor Madlin. He smiled at the memory of the tiny man, barely 5'3", taking down the much larger cadets, not physically, but mentally. Stripping them of their egotistical illusions of intellectual superiority much as the self-defense instructors destroyed any illusions of physical excellence. Academy days. That was a laugh. He'd been lucky enough to be sent there for a six week course in ... something. God. This was bad. He couldn't remember what, but he could remember Professor Madlin's green ink. He'd found out later that red reminded the man, who'd lost both sons to Vietnam, too much of blood.
Well, if it was good enough for Madlin, it was good enough for him. Searching for the misspelled word, Jack realized it was now hopelessly lost in a maze of his own corrections. Did he need a comma before that 'and'? Shit. He really didn't know. Or care. Did the Pentagon care? He seriously doubted it, but... He grinned as an image rose in his thoughts of a room full of enlisted personnel, whose duties were to count commas, and determine a report's worthiness, based purely on grammatical details. "Don't kid yourself, Jack, that could be what happens."
His eyes landed on the heavily edited report. He'd added so many corrections and addendums that he no longer knew what it really said.
Okay, that was easy to fix. Print a fresh copy. Pushing the printer icon on his screen, he growled irritably as a warning icon flashed at him. Reaching for a fresh package of paper, his eyes focused on the 'bonded' label on the package, as he stuffed the paper in the tray.
Bond. James Bond. Here he was stuck in a stuffy little room printing a grammatically correct report, on superior quality paper, and his team was watching James Bond save the world again. And eating buttered popcorn. Lots and lots of cholesterol laden buttered popcorn. And probably drinking enough caffeinated soft drinks to allow them to travel to other planets sans the 'gate.
Throwing his pen down on his desk, he ripped the first page out of the printer, and read through it hastily. Frowning, he pulled the next page, and the next. By the time all ten pages were done, his original draft looked surprisingly good. Maybe it was the bonded paper. Did he dare.... Glancing at his watch, he knew he'd never make it in time for the movie, but maybe he could talk them into pizza at his place. And they could tell him about it. With all the wonderful special effect details. Yep. That was a plan. Hastily signing his name to his original report, he shoved it in the Pentagon envelope, dropped it in his outbasket, and headed for the door.
Rounding the corner, he froze as he heard a familiar voice, "Daniel Jackson wins."
Staring in shock at his team, Jack could only mumble, "Teal'c? Carter? Daniel? What? I thought..."
Daniel grinned. "A Bond flick is no good without you in the audience. You're as much fun to watch as the movie."
Sam started to laugh. "He's right, Colonel. You really get into the special effects."
"I do not." Jack replied indignantly, oblivious to the fact that he was being herded into an opening elevator.
"I disagree, O'Neill. During the last movie, you..."
"What about the report, Jack?" Daniel quickly interrupted, not wishing to be reminded of their last theatrical misadventure. The ushers had *not* been polite as they'd escorted SG-1 to the door.
"It's done. Signed, sealed, and waiting to be delivered." He leaped out quickly as the elevator doors opened. "I'll drive. Pizza at my place afterwards. Pizza and hockey!" Trotting briskly across the parking lot, he failed to notice his team was lagging behind.
"Major Carter wins this round, Daniel Jackson." Teal'c intoned dramatically.
"Damn, and I was so sure." Daniel sighed as he started to follow Jack.
Sam just shook her head as she trailed behind. "Really, Daniel. I cannot believe you really thought he'd opt for sushi."