PERCHANCE TO DREAM
He was hot.
That sensation, along with pain, was the focus
Lieutenant Tim O'Neill's world had narrowed down to. Ahead
of him, was only long stretches of white, shimmering sand,
occasionally broken by dunes or boulders. Behind him was
more of the same.
It was just his luck, that the plane had gone down
in a desert. O'Neill was a Michigander. What the hell did
a person from East Lansing know about hot, arid climates?
He'd be better off stuck in a blizzard!
"No chance of that here," he choked out. He'd
begun talking to himself these past few hours. It reminded
him that he was alive.
Of course, so did the pain that throbbed in time
with his heartbeat.
He wasn't sure exactly what his injuries were. It
felt like he'd been run over by a truck, then dragged for a
few blocks. Every muscle, bone, organ and cell hurt. He
wasn't bleeding, nothing was broken...he just ached. And
the blazing sun overhead wasn't helping matters, drying and
cracking his lips, burning his skin, partially blinding
him...
It was times like this when he appreciated living
underwater.
While his mind was wandering, his feet were doing
the same. However, as they weren't doing it together, a
small, sharp stone caught him by surprise. He tripped, and
went sprawling into the sand.
He sighed. Why did this always seem to happen to
him? He'd always known seaQuest was cursed, but him
specifically? He'd never considered himself important
enough to hex.
Hauling himself painfully to his feet, he resumed
his hike.
After long moments of quiet...
"Tim?"
O'Neill turned slightly, startled at the
shattering silence. He relaxed as he saw who was
approaching. "Hi."
Miguel Ortiz smiled as he fell into step beside
O'Neill. "Hi." He held out a small metal circle. "You
dropped this back there," he told the lieutenant.
O'Neill reclaimed the penny with a wry grin.
"Thanks...but I don't think I'll need it." After all, what
could pennies buy anymore?
"It was heads up when I found it." Ortiz
shrugged. "Maybe it'll be lucky for you."
O'Neill chuckled dryly. Luck had been one of the
many things not on his side lately. "Right."
They continued on in silence for what might've
been minutes, or hours. It was hard to tell.
"Tim...where are you going?"
It was the question O'Neill had hoped to avoid.
"Well...there was supposed to be a small station around here
somewhere." Hell, he was in Nevada, home of the fabled
Area 51. Maybe he'd find it-- or its current analog-- if he
couldn't find the relay station.
The quiet chuckle caught O'Neill's attention.
"What?" the lieutenant asked.
Ortiz shook his head. "No, Tim. That's not what
I meant." He paused, apparently trying to explain himself.
"I meant," he clarified, "where are you going with
your life?"
That question threw O'Neill out of step. "Are you
serious?" was all he could think of to say. Where had this
sudden interest come from?
Ortiz's obsidian eyes were somber. "Yeah." He
fell silent, waiting for O'Neill to speak.
Unfortunately, the lieutenant had no idea what to
say. "Are you sure this is the right time to discuss this?"
He really wanted to talk about something else. "We're
stuck in the middle of--"
"I know where we are, Tim," Ortiz assured him.
"And this could be our only chance to talk." He was silent
for a moment. "So...where are you headed?"
Unable to meet his friend's penetrating stare,
O'Neill looked at the sand. "I-- I don't know," he finally
admitted. It was an understatement. O'Neill not only
didn't know where he was going, but had, in fact, no clue as
to what direction to take, or, what he'd find once he'd
arrived.
If he arrived.
"Everything's so screwed up," he sighed. "The
world went to Hell while we were in stasis, yet they still
expect us to fix it all!" He shook his head. "The UEO is
being backed into a corner by Macronesia. Deon is making an
ecological nightmare of the rest of the world. People
everywhere are hurting..." The few phrases didn't begin to
describe the hopelessness of the situation. Life itself was
occasionally torture for him.
"...And you're as helpless as the rest of them."
O'Neill blinked as Ortiz finished his thought.
"Yeah," he confirmed quietly. "You don't-- you can't
understand how horrible it is, knowing that there's pain and
suffering all around you, and not being able to help stop
any of it." He sighed, as snippets from several of the
incidents flashed through his mind...
...A glimpse he'd caught of Ben Krieg's wild eyes,
as the former lieutenant stood across the room from him.
And, to think, that had been Krieg in a good mood...
...Watching his vidlink powerlessly as Lonnie
Henderson was sentenced to death by Macronesia. He'd been
so furious, and had fought back in the only way he could.
It didn't work out so well...
...Staring at the bloody hole in Jim Brody's chest
as he lay dying. O'Neill had wanted desperately to do
something, but didn't have any idea as to what he could
do...
...On the bridge, the anger flowing, as he tried
to stand up for Bridger. And, shock, dismay, and sadness as
he realized he was the only one left who would...
...Slipping down to the medbay during that
Antilles epidemic. He'd wanted to see Bridger, but was told
the captain was unconscious. The agony and delirium of the
"recovering" patients was almost too much for him...
...Intense betrayal as he realized Kimura had
never given a damn about him, and was just using him to
defect. In one short moment, the one person he'd still
wholeheartedly trusted had turned on him...
"Tim?" Ortiz's voice cut through the painful
reverie. "You okay?"
O'Neill nodded, getting a grip on himself. "It's
the heat," he lied. In truth, he had no idea what his
problem was.
Or, maybe that, in itself, was the problem.
O'Neill had no idea what was going on inside him.
All of his emotions seemed
to have either combined into one huge mess, or had
evaporated. Nothing seemed to satisfy him anymore. He
learned new languages, studied new subjects, all in an
attempt to distract himself from both the abundance and
emptiness.
But the feelings, or lack thereof, lingered.
"No matter what I do," O'Neill whispered, "I can't get
away from it." He looked up at Ortiz. "Sometimes...I-- I'm
not sure I can take it anymore."
Those "sometimes" were coming more and more often.
In fact, it seemed like every other day, he lost ground to
the shadow that he'd managed to repress for years.
The one that whispered to him about the calm
freedom of oblivion.
"So...you want to die?"
O'Neill stopped walking. "I..." He trailed off,
thinking and rethinking what he wanted to say. On one hand,
there was the natural, evolutionary desire for survival.
Plus, there was always hope, the thought that life would get
better.
On the other hand...there was reality.
Self-preservation could be overridden, that was
obvious. As for hope...he'd lost that a long time ago. To
him, death seemed like the only way to escape the hell his
world-- his life-- had become.
"I...guess I do. Sometimes."
Ortiz shrugged. "Then die."
O-Neill blinked. He hadn't expected such a
dismissive response. "What?"
"Die," Ortiz repeated. "If that's really what you
want...I think you should do it."
The lieutenant felt a little off-balance. "I was
hoping you'd at least try to talk me out of it," he said,
somewhat hurt that his friend didn't care one way or the
other.
Ortiz just chuckled. "Why? If you're dead set on
it-- 'scuse the pun-- than nothing I say's gonna change
your mind." He shrugged. "There's no point."
O'Neill stared at his friend, a dark silhouette
against the brilliant sunlight, and considered.
Ortiz had a point: if O'Neill had been determined
to die, nothing anyone said woul'-ve made a difference.
Generally, when someone committed suicide, they were either
alone, with no one to talk to, or were so far gone in their
depression or delusions that they thought that no one cared
or that everyone was out to get them. To make a long story
short, they didn't try and get anyone to talk them out of
it, because they didn't want to be talked out of it.
Just by his earlier reaction, O'Neill realized
that he wasn't that far gone. Not yet, anyway.
And, that was probably just what Ortiz had been
trying to show him.
O'Neill turned to his friend, who was watching him
intently. "It's your choice, Tim," he told the lieutenant.
"It always is."
O'Neill blinked, as the winds rose and began
blowing sand around. He nodded, conceding the point to
Ortiz. "Yeah." He paused. "You know," he said lightly, "I
think you spend too much time around Dr. Smith."
Ortiz chuckled. "Probably." A faraway look
appeared in his onyx eyes. "She and Brody send their
regards."
O'Neill did a double take. "Miguel...they're
dead."
Ortiz shrugged. "So am I."
O'Neill felt his mouth fall open as that statement
registered. "What?!?"
Ortiz's trademark lopsided grin appeared on his
face. "Gotta go, Tim. Good luck."
O'Neill reached out for his friend, desperate not
to lose him again. "Miguel, wait!"
But the desert abruptly vanished...
...To be replaced by seaQuest's medbay.
O'Neill sat up with a start. "What the--"
"Shh" Dr. Perry ordered, coming over to him.
"You're going to wake them."
It was on the tip of his tongue to ask who she was
talking about as he caught sight of two chairs near the bed.
Tony Piccolo slept in one, Lucas Wolenczak in the
other.
"They've been here ever since the medevac brought
you in," Perry told him. "Commander Ford, Lieutenant
Commander Kimura, and Lieutenant Henderson have been too,
but they're on duty now."
O'Neill blinked, still trying to get over the fact
that he wasn't in a desert. "What happened?" he asked
quietly.
Perry went on to tell him about the virus he'd
caught, a resistant strain of hepatitis.
O'Neill only listened with half an ear. He was
more interested in his dream. He wondered if that really
had been Ortiz, or if it had just been a figment of his
imagination.
But...then again...did it really even matter?
After Perry left-- careful to tiptoe around Lucas and
Tony-- O'Neill lay back in the bed. He began to turn over,
to try and get some sleep, but heard a slight noise as he
did so. A quiet jingling...
Reaching into the pocket of the pajamas he was wearing,
he pulled out two small pieces of copper.
Pennies.
And they were both heads up.
His choice made, O'Neill closed his eyes, and fell
asleep, a small smile still on his lips.
THE END
All things not the property of Amblin entertainment,
copyright Melissa Beattie
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