In a Clean White Room

Oh. Right then. There was an outstanding reason for doing what they were doing. This was a contingency plan. It must be. 

The Dodge Charger was a man’s car.

The tail end of any bell curve was a precarious place to live.

“There’s going to be like—math. Math and languages and crypto and the story and the graphics—ugh. It hurts me. My soul aches with how good it looks.”

“Did you just call me ‘gate bait’?” Rush asked.

He hated photons. They were the cheap grief of the cosmos.

There was no escaping the fact that his bones were bolted together.

To create a machine that feels is a cruelty.

The esprit de corps of SG-1 was an event horizon of mutually-dependent, self-deprecating charm that was as exhausting as it was addictive. Once one passed a certain point, there seemed to be no escape.

The gate shut off behind them with a sound like the rending of field lines.

“The whole world owes me coffee,” Jackson said, and, while his delivery was light, those blue-fire eyes were anything but.

“It’s not a fan club,” McKay said indignantly, his eyes flashing toward Rush and then away. “It’s a journal club.”

She changes her direction, spinning on the axis of the naquadah in her pocket.

"I'm not really dressed for a carjacking. I could use a new shirt."

At the bottom of a nameless ravine, microprocessors had rained down from a cloudless sky.

Samantha Carter experiences all that is possible, even if she isn’t aware of it; her consciousness splitting and ending and tracking and reforming until it runs out through threading tributaries and the river of her life rejoins the cosmic ocean.

“I'm going to make my continued involvement with the stargate program contingent upon you taking a computer literacy class,” Rush snarled.

“Believe it or not,” Vala said, “we’re here to rescue you.”

“Less talking,” Young said grimly, as the sound of gunfire began to approach their position, “more climbing.”

“You want to hack a quantum computer?” Perry asked, her voice rising in pitch.

“This phone has seen some times. It knows the world now.”

Jackson sighed theatrically. “No one appreciates me.”

“ If seven chevrons take you within the galaxy and eight chevrons take you without, then nine chevrons—”

What did they want from him anyway, this fraternitas sanitas that razed civilizations to the ground with a wink and a smile and obligatorily cheeky commentary?

Just hostile incursions and math.

This was what had driven Schumann insane.

“Dang it,” Mitchell said. “Jackson and Carter are infecting my lexicon.”

One could not disappoint the dead.

How he was gonna unpack all these boxes, he had no idea.

“You said this ‘moving’ was a cultural rite of passage.”

It must begin somewhere.