Untitled Round Robin
By SGC Gategirl and Gumnut
EMAIL: sgcgategirl@optonline.net and/or gumnut@gumnut.net

RATING: Ages 15+ (your guess is as good as ours)
CATEGORY: Angst, Hurt/comfort, Action/Adventure, team whumping, Jack whumping
SUMMARY:
WARNINGS: Jack's potty mouth and a smidgen of violence, blood, and gore...so the usual. You know what happens when Jack finds a Jaffa he doesn't like.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: None yet...give us time. We're not done yet.

He looked up at the sound. It was only a small sound, a whimper, but it finally gave his quarry away, and he moved.

He was silent, even the rustle of fabric muted. The weapon in his hand was heavy, but warm from being cramped up against his body under the log, and despite its purpose, it felt familiar and reassuring. That thought might have been a worry in any other situation, but here it could save his life.

The brush was thick, and it made his approach a challenge, but he continued to manage it, and as he crept up on the figure he could now see in the gloom, there was no reaction. It was the way he wanted it.

But suddenly the sound changed in pitch, volume, and direction, echoing through the forest, shattering the silence. The squawks of distain drifted from the treetops as the leaves around him rustled, this planet's version of birds taking flight.

That sound wasn't human.

But where had that damn Jaffa gone?

Easing around yet another tree, using the noise to his benefit, he moved quickly edging closer to the object in his sight, the figure that was his target. The 9mm was solid in his hand, the one extra round digging into the small of his back. The nicks and cuts on his arms and face twinged as he moved, as the dried scabs pulled at his skin. His hand was sweaty, much like the rest of his body, but his grip was sure and firm.

His target hadn't moved.

Even with the racket of the birds and the remnents of the strange sound still floating on the air, his target hadn't moved.

Something was wrong and his sixth sense was kicking up a warning sign. But yet, he still had to investigate, he had to make sure his target was terminated before he could proceed, before he could move to the next step of his plan—and he did have one of them.

Breathing heavily, but trying to keep his exhalations quiet, he stopped, resting behind the large rock conviniently located just a few feet from his intended target.

Taking once last deep breath, he began to crawl around to the edge of his hiding place, the sudden silence of the forest unnaturally loud. Ignoring the ever growing twanging of his sixth sense, he pushed forward.

What he saw, however, was not what he expected.

The man was kneeling on the ground, his body almost limp as if on the verge of falling the rest of the way to collapse. In the gloom, he was almost a shadow, but Jack could clearly see the outlines of battle beaten Jaffa armor, particularly the bullet hole on the right side, a scar he had put there personally not two hours ago. This was the bastard who had grabbed his team. This was the one who had hunted him through this forest of horrors. This was the one who would pay.

Unfortunately his opponent had other ideas.

As O'Neill moved into position to strike, he finally caught sight of the man's face.

No.

God damnit! No!

The bruised and battered features turning towards him, as if sensing his presence, staring fearfully at him with a pair of very familiar pain-filled blue eyes. They latched on to him to moment they located his position, and for a moment O'Neill froze, horribly aware of his sudden vulnerability to what was most likely a hidden opponent.

A pair of split lips opened as a hoarse whisper of a word wafted across the small clearing.

"T-trap...."

O'Neill's breath caught in his throat, his heart lodged somewhere in his esophagus. Oh, God, Daniel. What have they done to you?

But even as the thought crossed his mind, he clamped own hard on his own emotions, closing off everything except the present—as hard as it was to bear. He was a professional. He had a job to do. As much as it hurt him to leave Daniel like that, hanging by a thread, he had to move lest he get also caught.

And right now, he was his team's only hope for rescue, for freedom. Everything rested on him and his training, his professionalism, and his ability to get the job done.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw movement and he ducked, rolling on his side toward the cover of trees and brush, the whistling of a missed swing filling the air where he'd been only moments before.

He scrambled to his feet, chancing a glance over his shoulder as the agile Jaffa followed him into the forest, away from Daniel and the pain-filled gasps he took, each one even harder than the one before.

Jack stumbled over an exposed root, going down hard on his already aching knees, but he pulled himself up quickly, not caring about the noise he made. He needed to get some distance between him and the Jaffa following behind. And, he had to ration his ammunition. He had two bullets left in the gun and one full clip, the rest of the weapons he carried long gone, lost in the initial encounter nearly a day ago.

This Jaffa was crafty, craftier than the others who had tracked him during the early hours of their pursuit. How many in total were on the planet, looking for him and watching his team, were more than he wanted to know. From the brief glance he'd gotten before when he'd scouted camp and picked up his latest hunter, there were upwards of fifty.

One against fifty were not good odds. But for his team, he'd take them anytime.

But first he needed to even the playing field.

Outnumbered.

Outgunned.

There was only one way to take them down.

One by one.

Doing it the ‘Die Hard' way.

He was no Bruce Willis but he did feel he had a few tricks up his sleeve…and a whole stack of training and experience to back him up.

First target—that goddamned alien hard on his tail. Only by negating that threat could he possibly do anything about getting Daniel to safety.

And this one was a smart one. He had obviously calculated the value of his team, and used Daniel as a tool of attraction and distraction. The fact that he had pummelled the poor archaeologist into a slumped mass of bruises was simply icing on the cake, perhaps a little fun for him and a couple of his buddies.

He wasn't the only one capable of having fun.

O'Neill ducked between two trees and slid as quietly as possible down the short but steep side of a ditch. He left a trail, obvious to the trained eye, but subtle, in an attempt to hide the fact he had left it on purpose.

It was time to put an end to this little game.

He slipped for a moment, almost falling, but grabbed a small tree to halt his descent, and, pivoting, pushed back up the slope, almost to the top. Throwing himself behind a fallen log, a position he was becoming far too familiar with today, he waited.

He didn't have to wait long.

The Jaffa slunk confidently into view, seemingly not caring who saw him, yet as silent as the almost non-existent breeze. He moved fluidly, every motion speaking of training, skill, potential, and the Colonel refused to underestimate this one.

Following Jack's trail, he passed underneath his quarry's current position.

Just a little bit further…

With a brief moment of calculation, O'Neill leapt.

He knew, even before he tackled the Jaffa, that it was going to hurt. There was more than one reason for their body armor, and apparently flying humans was one such item.

A split second before he made contact, the target turned, catching sight of him and quickly moved to intercept.

As soon as O'Neill saw the Jaffa's face, he nearly swore.

This was the wrong Jaffa.

They landed in a heap, each man vying for dominance as they rolled in the dirt, leaves clinging to the back of O'Neill's black T-shirt, the Jaffa's body armor digging into all the wrong places.

Huffing and puffing they rolled. Grunting and swearing in an intimate and deadly embrace.

Top.

Bottom.

Top.

Bottom.

Hands fighting for leverage, trying to find that one weak point.

The 9mm was heavy and trapped between him and the Jaffa, pointed in the wrong direction, his opponent's hand clamped down hard on his wrist. O'Neill snarled in an effort to free it, while his back encountered a tree, leaving him wedged between the hardwood and a wriggling mass of muscle.

The Jaffa shifted slightly, sensing his advantage, his free hand climbing to wrap around O'Neill's bruised and dirty neck, while the other one continued to bear down on O'Neill's gun-wielding hand, trying to find the pressure point to get him to drop the weapon.

This was so not going according to plan.

Bringing up a knee, O'Neill tried to dislodge the Jaffa, the edges of his vision fading out as his opponent shifted again, finding a better angle, pushing down a little harder.

Pain shot up from his wrist and if he could have taken a breath he would have yelped. The gun tumbled from his numb fingers, dropping between his legs and into the underbrush.

With the tree at his back, the roots and nubs of the bark pressing into his muscles, and the Jaffa on top of him, he felt like a sardine.

A last desperate shove with his knee and the Jaffa loosened his grip, allowing O'Neill to take in a much need breath, the air wheezing through his bruised windpipe.

Another quick movement with his legs and everything changed, the Jaffa landing squarely on his back, O'Neill's eyes a dark pool of nothingness as they stared into the Jaffa's surprised and astonish-filled face.

This particular human was not one to take lightly.

O'Neill reached to his side, his knife gliding easily into his hand, his movements precise and sure as the blade slid upward, under the Jaffa's armor and directly into his heart.

"That's for Daniel, you son of a bitch," he growled, a drop of spit flying from his lips to land on the Jaffa's cheek.

Seconds later it was over.

Rolling off the body, O'Neill shuttered, pulling himself back together, his fingers instinctively finding his 9mm where he'd dropped it, his wrist still bearing the ugly bruise where the Jaffa had squeezed it.

Pulling his knife from the dead body, O'Neill wiped it on the Jaffa's cape before putting it back in its sheath and shoving his gun in his waistband.

He had to move. There was no telling when the real mastermind behind this whole masquerade would appear and he didn't want to be unprepared. He'd been tricked again by the same damn Jaffa that had captured his team in the first place.

He wasn't about ready to let it happen again.

Covering the body with leaves, he moved off again, back toward his teammate. If he could get Daniel to safety it was one less person that he had to worry about.

Sliding from tree to tree, O'Neill cautiously retraced his steps. Pausing at every twist and turn of the route, listening, waiting, and anticipating another attack.

But none came.

The forest was quiet apart from his wheezing breaths.

He spotted a familiar landmark up ahead, the huge rock at the edge of the clearing. Taking a more circuitous route, he padded through the brush, leaving a path even Teal'c would have problems following.

He skirted the edge of the cliff, the rushing water below a faint backdrop to the pounding of his heart.

But as he made the final turn, the clearing coming into full view for the first time, O'Neill realized how much he had underestimated his opponent.

Daniel was gone.

Damn.

Damn.

Damnit!

There was no sight of the archaeologist with the exception of scuffled dirt and a single drop of blood. No tracks, no clues as to where he had been taken or who had done the taking. Though he had little doubt as to their identity.

The muffled squawk of a disturbed bird made him jump.

Damnit, O'Neill, this is getting you nowhere!

His eyes raked the scene, the undergrowth, everything the murky light touched. Nothing.

It was almost like he had been be—

O'Neill instinctively looked up, as if he could determine the presence of a Goa'uld vessel by simply looking between the clouds.

A ship in orbit. It was a possibility. Though there hadn't been one when they had landed their freshly acquired cargo vessel several days earlier. This planet did not support a stargate, but it did support an outpost for the local Goa'uld. Jacob had called for a little assistance in obtaining what he considered to be a simple but vitally important piece of information that was held at this facility.

Jacob had been hanging around Selmac too long. He was neglecting to tell them the whole story a little too often for Jack's tastes. Small Goa'uld outpost, my ass!

A second bird squawked in agitation, and again Jack jumped. For crying out loud…

He sprang to his feet, and, assessing the quickest route back to the compound, set off in that direction. The time for running had passed.

It was their turn to run.

Quickly, quietly, ever aware of the missing opponent, he made his way through the undergrowth, eyes tracking landmarks he had noted for navigation several hours before.

Consequently, he didn't see what caught his stride and tripped him up, until he scrambled to sit up from his inevitable and bruising collision with the ground.

Sticking out from a large pile of fallen leaves and debris was a single, bare human foot.

For a second, his heart stopped in his chest and what little color was left in his face drained out. Without a second thought he moved—quicker than he thought he was able. His hands acted on their own, digging through the dead foliage in an almost desperate attempt to discover what lay beneath the ruffled autumn blanket.

The foot was delicate and pale. The ankle rose to a waxy white calf and the uneven edge of a beige suede skirt. O'Neill sat back on his haunches, his forehead creased in thought. Unless Carter had brought a rather revealing change of clothes, this wasn't her.

That simple realization took tons of weight from his mind but left more questions than answers. Who was this? Why was it here? When did it get here?

By this time, O'Neill's nothing-is-ever-a-coincidence warning system was flashing rather frantically.

He leaned forward, brushing the rest of the leaves from the body, the smell of decomposition growing stronger as the leaves and dirt were pushed aside. With a final swipe of his hand the barest remains of a face stared up at him, the softest of the features already gone, nature having taken its course several weeks ago. The cause of death painfully obvious: a harsh, angry mark running from ear to ear.

Whatever information Jacob had been looking for had vanished even before he knew it was missing.

Trying not to breath too deeply and apologizing silently, he let his fingers do the walking, carefully searching at the Tok'ra's clothing, looking for any sign as to who this was or what she was doing here—or, even more importantly, a Zat'nik'tel. His fumbling fingers strayed across an empty holster and he cursed, the expletive coming out no louder than an exhalation. He pressed on, finally locating a small bag. Tugging it free, the semi-decomposed strap broke easily.

He sat back on his heels, casting a glance around the silent forest before focusing his attention once again on the leather bag in his hand, the flap falling open to reveal nothing more than the Tok'ra equivalent of an energy bar and a single memory crystal.

Grasping the crystal in his hand, he dropped the bag, the edge of the energy bar spilling out of the top. This might have some answers, but unfortunately the only card reader he knew was several clicks away, hidden safely in a valley, and the read-ee was MIA.

Damn.

Closing his fist around the crystal, he stood, weighing his options, his mind spinning around the small piece of quartz in his hand. Why was it here? Why hadn't the attacker taken it along with the Tok'ra's weapon? What secrets did it hold? Or what lies did it perpetuate?

The age of speculation had passed and time was running forward like a swift-moving stream. How long would it be until he stumbled over one of his teammates, lying in the dirt, a shroud of leaves their only mantle?

Pocketing the crystal, his eyes narrowed in the growing darkness. Ever since his last encounter with the Jaffa, the forest had been quiet, the atmosphere expectant. Another Jaffa would cross his path shortly, he knew, as his steps took him closer to the compound and the more frequently patrolled trails. Avoiding the guards was not an issue.

Stretching the muscles in his back, he started walking once again, moving quickly and quietly, the sound of his passing fading into the twilight. The forest was coming alive, its nocturnal residents sniffing the air, the first step of their nightly rituals. The sounds surrounded him from the swish of wings and the whisper of creatures venturing along the treetops to the clicking of various insect-like creatures and the sharp crack of a breaking branch.

O'Neill froze instantly, his eyes scanning the clearing he found himself in, his boot-clad feet on soft soil.

He could feel it. The hairs on the back of his neck rose, confirming his suspicions.

Someone was out there.

A whisper of movement, a click.

He moved, throwing himself to the ground, just as a streak of orange light tore through the space his head had occupied a millisecond earlier. The hair on the top of his head singed and curled with the heat, immediately staining the air with the smell of burning keratin.

He rolled to the right, knowing instinctively that movement was his only chance. Light scorched his eyes as another bolt passed in front of him, its heat terrifyingly close, throwing up dirt.

He yelled as the third bolt burnt the end of his nose.

For a moment he was blinded, painful after images cauterizing his brain, but the clearing had fallen silent, the only sound his own panicked breathing.

And a footstep.

Another.

His breath locked in his chest.

The creak of a familiar uniform.

He couldn't see, but he reacted anyway.

He brought his feet up and connected solidly with a body. He rotated on his hips like some demented breakdancer wannabe, and his unseen opponent came crashing to earth with an abrupt exhalation of what was hopefully every breath he had. O'Neill didn't hesitate. By touch alone, he pinned what had proven to be yet another Jaffa beneath him.

A second later, he had his gun up under the man's chin.

"Just give me an excuse."

Mutters. In Goa'uld.

"Don't give me that shit. What the hell do you want with me?"

Spit landed on his face. Crap.

He jammed the gun further under his chin, initiating a little pain for the man's companionship. The only response he received was a brief inhalation.

"Don't feel like talking?" Nothing. "Well, how about a little show and tell."

His eyesight was finally beginning to clear, but the end of his nose hurt like hell, and O'Neill was sure he was sporting a serious case of sunburn across the rest of his face. Fraiser would probably attack him when he got home. Nothing new there.

He backed off from his prisoner, allowing the man room to get to his feet. He kicked the discarded staff weapon to one side, and palmed the man's zatgun, both hands giving the man an opportunity at death should he decide to do something stupid.

"Let's go for a little walk, shall we?"

O'Neill picked up the staff weapon as he walked by, the prisoner only a few steps in front of him. Even if he didn't use it, the last thing he needed was for a weapon to just be lying around for some other Jaffa to find.

When the Jaffa paused, O'Neill shoved him none too gently toward the treeline, back to where that first shot had originated.

It was hard to believe though, that this Jaffa was such a bad shot. Teal'c wasn't. Many other Jaffa weren't. There was something else going on and it was time he got to the bottom of it.

Picking his way through the undergrowth, he spotted the subtle traces of where the Jaffa had tracked him, paralleling his trail without raising O'Neill's suspicions.

Damn, he cursed. He was slipping. He should have been able to pick that Jaffa up a mile away.

Although, he was in desperate need of food and water and a nap—not in that particular order. He'd been on the run ever since the attack, since his team's abduction. It had been a lark, really, that he'd been spared.

It wasn't his fault that nature had bad timing.

Although, in retrospect, it might have been perfect timing. At least he was free.

In the darkening twilight, the moon's rays barely reaching the forest floor, O'Neill spotted a dark shape at the bottom of a tree trunk—too small for a person, but larger than a root.

His prisoner was also acting a little funny, twitchy even, if you could describe a Jaffa that way. There was something about that item that was getting under this particular Jaffa's skin.

And, come to think of it, they'd already passed the body of the dead Tok'ra. Why didn't he Jaffa kill him when he'd had the chance earlier, when O'Neill had been distracted?

Maybe there had been something up ahead that they didn't want him to find. Or maybe it was something else entirely.

But one thing was for sure, O'Neill hated not knowing the whole story.

Getting closer to the object in question, O'Neill's eyebrow raised when it transformed itself into a bag, a traveling pouch of sorts. Larger than what the Tok'ra generally carried, but very similar in shape and design.

A Jaffa purse.

Shaking the thought from his head, O'Neill picked up his pace, making sure the Jaffa saw his Zat gun-toting hand as he gestured for him to stop.

"Let's take a little break," O'Neill said, pointing toward a neighboring tree. "Have a seat."

When the Jaffa didn't move immediately, O'Neill narrowed his eyes, his hand coming up and activating the Zat. "Don't make me repeat myself."

A brief contest of wills—each staring the other down—commenced until the Jaffa finally glanced away, settling down, his back resting against the tree. O'Neill nodded once, sharply, making sure his prisoner was done shifting and moving around.

Kneeling down on one knee, he laid the staff weapon on the ground beside him, shifting the Zat gun to his left hand while his right fumbled along the edge of the bag, lifting the edge of the flap until it fell open before him. A glint of light on metal caught his eye.

Pulling the side of the bag down, O'Neill looked closer, his stomach turning as he realized just what the game was.

The Jaffa hadn't missed.

The arm and leg shackles were a dead giveaway that the Jaffa were looking to take him alive. Well, he was going to give these boys a run for their money.

A soft crackle of leaves and twigs filtered into his ears and O'Neill's head shot up. His eyes widened as two hundred and fifty pounds of Jaffa bore down on him.

Crap. Not again.

This was getting ridiculous.

O'Neill flung himself aside, rolling in the detritus of the forest, scraping his already sore face in the dirt.

But this time he wasn't fast enough.

He twisted as the man's weight landed on him, but his breath was still shoved somewhere north of his eyebrows. This one was heavy.

He must remember to mention in his next report just how little some of these remote-type Jaffa bathe. Like, c'mon, all this super technical science fiction type technology and they can't conquer the simple task of cleanliness? Those uniforms can get rank, and not of the soldiering kind.

And his face always ended up getting shoved into some smelly guy's armpit.

He thrust a hand into his opponent's face, mashing his features into an unpleasant mess. The Jaffa groaned, but the cold reality of a staff weapon shoved hard under his chin told O'Neill where the tables stood.

The spark of the weapon igniting was enough to prompt a reconsideration of his strategy.

His eyes met those of the warrior who had captured him, and in them he saw his own death. There was no coming back from this one.

But he would go down fighting.

Fortunately he didn't have to follow that particular path. His last minute grab for life was interrupted by a god-awful yell and a sudden release of pressure on his chest as the Jaffa he had previously been holding prisoner, barreled into his assailant and tackled him to the ground.

There was a flash of light and then silence.

Gasping, O'Neill pushed himself to his feet, ready for anything.

A staff weapon was once again shoved under his nose. Electricity danced in front of his eyes.

"Kree, Tau'ri!"

Jack peered over the head of the weapon into the eyes of his former prisoner. Fanatic was an understatement. The symbol of the local minor Goa'uld literally flared on the man's forehead in anger. Something suddenly occurred to O'Neill and a quick glance at his now dead attacker revealed a different symbol, one Jack had never seen before. He schooled his features.

"Kree? You couldn't think of another word? You guys really need to revise your vocabulary, it is so limited."

"Kree!"

"Oh, put a sock in it."

The Jaffa frowned.

One hand up to deflect offending weapon. Other hand to gun, aim at opponent.

The sound of tables turning in the breeze.

"Now are you going to tell me what the hell is going on, or do you want to die?"

O'Neill cast a glance toward the figure lying supine on the ground, a smoking hole in his chest with something that resembled a winged sun tattooed on his forehead, before turning his attention back to the Jaffa standing before him, staff weapon in hand.

This Jaffa's symbol—and his god only knew what it was—stood out starkly on his pale, sweat-dampened forehead.

Narrowing his eyes, O'Neill stared the Jaffa in the eyes, trying to get a feel for what was going on in the man's mind, to try and figure out the best way to get the information he needed out of him.

"Let's start at the beginning, shall we?" O'Neill said, tilting his head to the side, his mouth forming a humorless smile. "You apparently already know who I am. Who are you and who do you work for?"

O'Neill was nearly certain that he was going to have to pull the information out of the Jaffa's mouth with a pair of pliers. Actually, that might be easier.

"I know you speak. You've shouted at me in Goa'uld several times already today."

The Jaffa sighed, and O‘Neill nearly echoed him, his frustrations reaching an all-time high. He was cranky and tired and hungry and this damn Jaffa was not being very helpful.

"Bak'ari."

O'Neill's eyebrow raised as he straightened up. The Jaffa spoke? "Excuse me?"

"Bak'ari," he said, pronouncing the two syllables slowly and carefully.

"Bak'ari," O'Neill repeated once, letting the sound roll around on his tongue and in his brain. "And that's you?"

A single, brief nod was his only response.

Joy. He had to get stuck with the Jaffas' version of Gort.

By the time O'Neill finished—less than ten questions and close to two hours later—his head was pounding and he barely had enough information to warrant the time spent.

Gort, aka Bak'ari, was in the service of some minor system lord—Hairnet or something like that. If Daniel were here, he'd know, but of course that was the general problem, now wasn't it?

In any case, the dead Jaffa belonged to Benudey—or something like that. But here's the kicker: both of these minor system lords reported to the very same god—Heru-ur.

Joy.

Now as far as O'Neill was concerned, apart from Hathor—who was dead—and one or two others, Heru-ur was pretty high on his list of Goa'ulds least interested in meeting again. And, from what he could tell the feeling was mutual.

Sighing deeply, O'Neill shook his head, his chin clasped in his Zat-toting hand, as he tried to figure out how he could use all of this to his advantage.

Hairnet had his team. Benudey wanted something to offer Heru-ur when he finally showed up—O'Neill was that something. And then, between the two minor system lords, there was a sort of sibling rivalry going on, each one trying to out-do the other.

This time, SG1 had gotten caught in the middle.

It was time to move. O'Neill sighed again, his eyes never flinching as he quickly activated the Zat gun in his hand, stunning the Jaffa into unconsciousness. The information he provided was useful, but if his buddies found out about it, he was a dead man. Although he'd probably be rip-roaring mad when he woke, Bak'ari would thank him—eventually, even if it were just in his own mind.

And you never know when his help on the inside might come in handy.

Leaving the Jaffa slumped on the ground, the bag lying open at his side, O'Neill faded into the forest becoming one with the darkness and the trees.

TBC...